


DRAFT: Flux

by MusicalLuna



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Illnesses, M/M, Multi, WIP, Work In Progress, draft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:38:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 180,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I thought maybe somebody might enjoy seeing what this story looked like over the three years it took to write it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Draft I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the original draft of Flux, which back then was just called "it's power time". It was just supposed to be a sickfic with some scared Dads. I went from a little over 2K to 100K. Obviously things got out of control.
> 
> This document was last edited in June of 2012, which is pretty hilarious.

“You were _bitten_ by a Globotech radioactivity experiment?”

Peter looks up from the red, swollen spot on his hand, which his dad Steve has in both of his own gigantic hands. He looks up from his inspection of the bite, too, frowns. His dad Tony's face has gone white, his hands clenched around his silverware—they'd been eating dinner, Peter telling them about his day. Peter's not sure if the expression there is anger or fear.

“Dad?” Peter says, uncertain.

Tony's eyes flick up to Peter's and then back down to the little red spot on his hand. “Did you tell anybody about that?” he demands.

Peter blinks. “No. It wasn't like it was a recluse or a widow or something, it was just a spider. I didn't even know it was radioactive until I saw the the broken container. It must have fallen during transfer or som—”

“Fuck,” Tony says and then stands abruptly. He jerks one in a _come on_ gesture, kicking his chair away from the table. “We have to go to the lab. Bring your dinner, you can eat there. JARVIS—”

“Yes, sir.”

“—get Bruce to the lab on six now. Full work up. We're gonna need a radiation meter.”

“Very well, sir.”

Peter is definitely alarmed now. “Dad?”

“Come _on_ , Peter,” Tony says, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet. “That thing bit you almost six hours ago, god only knows what the hell's been happening since then—”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve says and Peter holds his breath because his dad's using the Captain America voice. Steve carefully pries Tony's too-tight grip from Peter's arm and slides between them. “Tony. What is going on?” he asks with forced calm.

For a second, Tony just stares, not quite there, the way he does when he's deep in his own head. Then the awareness seeps back into his gaze and he looks between Steve and Peter, sees the way Steve is  _protecting_ Peter from him and his face drops, his eyes going wide.

“Oh, fuck, Peter, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

Peter shakes his head. “No—Dad—it's okay, it's fine.  _I'm_ fine.”

Tony shoves his hands into his hair and Steve lowers his chin, bends a little so he can look up into Tony's face. “What's going on, Tony?” he says, deliberate.

His dad doesn't answer right away. He presses his hand over his mouth, one hand on his hip. “Look,” he finally says, voice strained. “I need to get a blood sample right now. I'll explain on the way.”

Steve relaxes slightly, trusting Tony's judgment. He dips his head, conceding, and says, “Okay. Let's go.” He puts an arm around Peter's shoulder and starts forward, but Peter's rooted to the spot. Tony never freaks out without good reason. But it had just been one tiny little spider. How much radiation could it have had in it? What if it was  _gamma_ radiation?

“Dad,” he says and he sounds small and scared to his own ears, like he's a little kid again. “Am I—I'm okay, right? I'm not—am I going to—” He can't make himself ask, even though it feels like the question's choking him.

“No, no, shh, hey. You're okay, buddy,” Steve says, pulling him up against his side and Peter lets him, suddenly hyperaware of the throbbing bite on his hand. “Your dad's just being cryptic and overprotective, as usual.”

“That's right,” Tony says. “You know me.” But he's always been a terrible liar—something Peter shares with him—and Peter's stomach gives a sick lurch. “You're fine,” Tony continues. “This is just...a precaution. I don't trust those Globotech clowns.” The words are right, but his expression and his voice are all wrong. “Please,” Tony says after another minute passes in which they don't move and it makes Peter feel icy all over. “Can we just.”

His legs shake as his dads herd him onto the elevator.

~

 

Bruce is waiting for them in the lab with his head tilted slightly to the side, openly curious. The curiosity becomes surprise when he sees Peter and his brow furrows. He looks to Steve and Tony. “What's going on?”

Tony strides in ahead of Peter and Steve, tapping his knuckles on every surface within reach as he passes. He snaps his fingers at Bruce a few steps into the room and says, “Wash up, Brucie, get some gloves.”

Bruce's mouth drops open, but he turns to do as told before looking to Steve for an answer.

“Peter went on a field trip to Globotech today,” Steve says and normally Peter would be embarrassed beyond imagining because his dad's got his hand held tight in his and he's fifteen for crying out loud, but he can't make himself pull away. It feels like home. Like safety. Which is stupid, because obviously if there's something wrong with him, holding his dad's hand isn't going to make it not wrong, but it feels like that anyway. “He was bitten by a radioactive spider—Globotech's attempt to recreate something like the super soldier serum, Tony says.”

Steve's angry in a way Peter has only seen once or twice, tightly-leashed fury covered up by steely calm. It's only really noticeable in the tautness of his every muscle, the occasional throb of the tendon in his jaw.

Bruce's eyes go wide, making Peter's stomach lurch and his hand tightens around his dad's reflexively. Steve squeezes back, gentle and steady, and Tony snaps his fingers again, glancing their way, but not really looking at either of them. “Hop up here, kiddo.”

Steve moves forward first, so all Peter has to do is follow him. He refuses to let go of his hand to get up on the table where Tony wants him, so it's a little awkward, but he gets there, his heart pounding between his collarbones.

Tony has a kit full of syringes and vials and needles open on the table next to him and Bruce has washed his hands and put gloves on and they're both standing in front of Peter and all of the sudden he's never been so scared in his life.

“Hey, you're fine, Peter,” Bruce says gently, apparently aware of his mental break. “You're okay.”

“If I was you wouldn't be— _Dad!_ ” he chokes around the knot in his throat. His eyes burn and blur between blinks and during a clear spot he sees Tony's eyes go round.

“Shit. Hey, no. No no no, Peter,” he says, and then he's pulling Peter against his chest, the arc reactor's edge pressing into Peter's shoulder painfully, but he's too busy trying to stifle a sob to care. “Fuck,” Tony breathes and he smells like metal and spaghetti and what if this is the last time Peter smells that? What if he's just like all the other test subjects? He's only _fifteen_. “You are not going to die,” Tony says, his voice sharp and he pulls back, his hand hot on the back of Peter's neck. “You hear me? You are _not_ dying, so you can just stop that train of thought right there. Take your bags, throw them off, and get back on the platform, you boarded the wrong train. All those other people died within minutes of receiving the bite, Peter. I just want to do some tests and make sure everything is okay, so if there _is_ something wrong, we catch it early and fix it. But under no circumstances are you going to die, got me? I don't care _what_ I have to do.”

That vicious promise helps kind of, but Peter pulls Tony back anyway, presses his face into his neck, trying vainly to stop the little hitching breaths he's taking. He doesn't hold out his arm for Bruce until Tony's got his arms around him again, murmuring into his hair, “Jesus, kid, I kind of lost it, I know, but I didn't mean  _that_ . Sorry, sorry. God, I'm sorry. _”_   
  
Peter flinches like a baby when he feels the barely-there prick of the needle in his arm, but both his dads just crowd closer, somebody's hand on the back of his head and he tries to make himself believe what Tony's saying.

Bruce draws a lot of blood, but he does it quick, he's really good at this stuff and Peter doesn't even notice when he pulls the needle out again, except he presses gauze down over the new puncture for a second before smoothing a band-aid over it.

“There,” he says quietly. “I'll get it all set up.” He squeezes Peter's knee and adds, “You really are going to be fine, Peter. The Geiger counter didn't even pick up any radiation.”

“See,” Tony says. “Just a precaution. Overprotective me.”

“You could have saved us all a lot of grief if you'd just _tell us what's going on_ ,” Steve says pointedly.

“Yes, well, I'll work on that for the future, shall I?” Tony says primly and Peter snorts out a congested laugh. The tension in Tony's body is easing away and Peter lets his do the same, reassured. _Just a precaution_ , he tells himself. _You're okay._

_~_

 

Tony and Bruce run tests on Peter until well after midnight. The further along they get, the more relaxed Tony becomes, until he's haranguing Peter about Gwen and how she never comes over for dinner.

“Speaking of Gwen,” Peter says at quarter after one, “Are we gonna be able to wrap this up soon, Dad? I've got school tomorrow, remember.” He's exhausted and his eyes are dry and tight.

“I think we should all play hooky tomorrow,” Steve says, off-handed, running his fingers through Peter's hair. Then: “You're getting a little shaggy, Pete.”

Peter waves his hands away, covering his head protectively. “I like it, leave it alone. Besides, Gwen's always touching it, she thi—”

Tony looks at him, his eyebrow slowly creeping up his forehead and his mouth twitching and Peter flushes.

“Shut _up_ , Dad.”

“Do we need to have the talk with our little boy?” Tony asks, half-wondering, half-teasing.

“God, no!” Peter says. “Clint explained everything, oh my god. If I'm lucky I might be able to block it out by the time I'm thirty and actually, you know, find the desire to have sex again.”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter and Bruce's mouth curls into a wry grin. Steve just looks fond and amused. “We raised a gentleman, he won't do anything he shouldn't.”

“You guys are so embarrassing,” Peter mutters, putting his head in his hands. “I'm going to bed.” Then he groans, remembering he's got bio homework he's gotta get done for first period. “After I do my homework. If there _isn't_ something wrong with me, I'm gonna kill you, Dad.”

“I mean it,” Steve says, dragging Peter back down when he tries to head for the door. “We should all take the day off tomorrow.”

“I thought we established that this was a false alarm,” Tony says. “And since when do you encourage delinquency?” 

“It's been a stressful night,” Steve says, tilting his chin up defiantly. “And I want the two of you where I can keep an eye on you for a little bit. Is that too much to ask?”

Tony's gaze goes soft and he glances away, flicking a glove across the room with a snap of his fingers. It falls easily into a trash bin. “All right. Day of rest it is.”

~

 

  
“Peter. Peter. Hey, kiddo, can you hear me? Peter?”

Peter groans and drags a pillow over his head. “Dad, 's too early, go'way,” he says.

There's a brief silence and Peter starts to drift off again. Then he feels a hand on his elbow. His other dad says, slowly, “Peter, it's five PM.”

Peter's brow furrows because that makes no sense. He can't have been out for more than a few minutes. He's still so tired.

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony says, his voice sharp with worry and Peter can't ignore that. He tries to open his eyes, to wake up; it's like trying to pull himself out of a thick, dark quagmire, it sucks him back down if he lets up at all.

He finally gets his eyes open and nearly loses what he's gained when he blinks and the darkness sweeps over him again.  _Why's he this tired?_ A little jolt of fear gives him the push he needs to open them fully. Tony's head is poking over the edge of the bed, his hand on Peter's elbow. His hair's absolutely nuts, standing on end in every direction. The bed shifts at Peter's hip and he forces his eyes up. Steve looks back at him, naked concern on his face. “Hey there,” he says.

“Hey, Dad,” Peter rasps and he wants to turn and sit up so he can look at both of them properly, but his limbs feel like they're made of cement.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks.

“Tired,” Peter says. “'S really five o'clock?”

“It really is,” Tony says and now that Peter's paying attention, his body's lodging a whole host of other complaints.

“H've to pee,” he says and Tony snorts. “Feel heavy. Achy.”

Tony doesn't look too surprised to hear that. “You've got a fever, so I expect you do.”

The need to pee is rapidly overpowering the lethargy and Peter shifts, grimacing as his whole body sort of throbs in response.  _Fever, that fits_ , he thinks.  _Not awesome_ .

“You okay to get up?” Steve says, curling a helpful hand around his bicep.

“Kinda stiff,” Peter says and then adds, “but I _really_ have to pee.” He gets a pair of chuckles that are half-hearted at best. Steve helps him get upright and Tony stands up and back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter really just wants to flop back down and go back to sleep, but he swings his legs out and Steve stands with him, not touching, but watching like he thinks he's Uncle Clint. “See,” Peter says when he's standing. “I'm good.” And he does feel a little better, like he's sloughing off the fatigue.

“Mhm,” Tony says skeptically. “You need a hand in there, Bambi?”

“Ew, no, absolutely not. That is the _last_ thing I need, Dad,” Peter tells him, shuddering. He can feel their gazes on him all the way to the bathroom.

When he emerges and shuffles into the living room they're both there, but they're trying too hard to look casual and Peter's pretty sure they were loitering outside the bathroom until about two seconds ago.

“Hungry?” Tony says, chipper.

“Yeah,” Peter says, surprised to find he's _starving._ He's barely gotten his butt in a chair when Steve puts a plate down in front of him. “Uh, wow. Thanks, Dad. Are we adding instant food prep to your list of heroic abilities?”

“I was making dinner before we decided to wake you up, wise guy,” Steve replies, giving him a look. “Less attitude, more eating.” Peter tosses him a lazy salute even though he knows it drives Steve crazy; it's a bad habit he picked up from Tony and he feels a little bad when his dad huffs and scowls. He gets to work on the plate to make it up to him.

He's already swallowed three or four bites when he realizes that neither of his dads is eating themselves. Tony's got his hip against the counter absently drying dishes as Steve hands them to him, but they're both watching him like he's going to burst into flames any second now.

“What?” he says and reaches up to touch his face. “Am I growing mandibles or something?”

Steve's hands tighten around a bowl he's washing and it shatters. He swears and snaps, “Don't move!” at Tony, who's barefoot. Amazingly, Tony does as he's told and freezes. “That's not funny, Peter,” Steve says tersely as he digs the dustpan out from the cabinet under the sink. “Don't— Just, don't even joke about that.”

Peter swallows the bite he's just taken with difficulty and it settles, sour in his belly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Steve stops, letting his head drop, and sighs. He puts the dustpan and brush down and covers his face for a second before standing, his expression twisted. “Peter, no. I know you're not being deliberately cavalier and I'm sorry.” He shrugs helplessly. “I'm worried.” Tony shifts, starting to move toward him and Steve throws a glare over his shoulder. “I told you not to move.”

Tony holds his hands up, eyes wide. “Oo-kay. Not moving. Nope. Staying right where I am.”

Peter's kind of stuck in place, his fingers curling around his fork. “I thought you said the tests were okay.”

Immediately, Tony's gaze snaps over to him. “They  _were_ okay,” he says, serious, and he's not lying. “But you slept through most of the day and it took us almost five minutes to get a response out of you when we tried to wake you up.”

“But—I'm a teenager. That's normal, right? Teenagers sleep all day all the time! I'm fine!”

Tony's shoulders creep toward his ears, his hands waving around. “There's nothing wrong with you that we know how to test for! Or that we can test in twenty-four hours. I mean, it's not completely ruled out, but it's incredibly unlikely—”

“ _Dad!”_

“ _Tony!”_

It occurs to him then who he's talking to and he flusters, shuffles his feet and— “ _Fuck!_ OW!”

“Dammit, Tony!” Steve grabs him, lifting him up like he weighs about as much as Peter does, and shoves him onto the counter. Tony hisses and 


	2. Draft II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the incomplete drafts. It took 4 to finally get to a point where it had an ending.

“You were _bitten_ by a Globotech radioactivity experiment?”

Peter looks up from the red, swollen spot on his hand, which his dad Steve has in both of his own gigantic hands. He looks up from his inspection of the bite, too, and frowns. His dad Tony's face has gone white, his hands clenched around his silverware—they'd been eating dinner, Peter telling them about his day. Peter's not sure if the expression there is anger or fear.

“Dad?” Peter says, uncertain.

Tony's eyes flick up to Peter's and then back down to the little red spot on his hand. “Did you tell anybody about that?” he demands.

Peter blinks. “No. It wasn't like it was a recluse or a widow or something, it was just a spider. I didn't even know it was radioactive until I saw the the broken container. It must have fallen during transfer or som—”

“Fuck,” Tony says and then stands abruptly. He jerks one in a _come on_ gesture, kicking his chair away from the table. “We have to go to the lab. Bring your dinner, you can eat there. JARVIS—”

“Yes, sir.”

“—get Bruce to the lab on six now. Full work up. We're gonna need a radiation meter.”

“Very well, sir.”

Peter is definitely alarmed now. “Dad?”

“Come _on_ , Peter,” Tony says, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet. “That thing bit you almost six hours ago, god only knows what the hell's been happening since then—”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve says and Peter holds his breath because his dad's using the Captain America voice. Steve carefully pries Tony's too-tight grip from Peter's arm and slides between them. “Tony. What is going on?” he asks with forced calm.

For a second, Tony just stares, not quite there, the way he does when he's deep in his own head. Then the awareness seeps back into his gaze and he looks between Steve and Peter, sees the way Steve is  _protecting_ Peter from him and his face drops, his eyes going wide.

“Oh, fuck, Peter, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

Peter shakes his head. “No—Dad—it's okay, it's fine.  _I'm_ fine.”

Tony shoves his hands into his hair and Steve lowers his chin, bends a little so he can look up into Tony's face. “What's going on, Tony?” he says, deliberate.

His dad doesn't answer right away. He presses his hand over his mouth, one hand on his hip. “Look,” he finally says, voice strained. “I need to get a blood sample right now. I'll explain on the way.”

Steve relaxes slightly, trusting Tony's judgment. He dips his head, conceding, and says, “Okay. Let's go.” He puts an arm around Peter's shoulder and starts forward, but Peter's rooted to the spot. Tony never freaks out without good reason. But it had just been one tiny little spider. How much radiation could it have had in it? What if it was  _gamma_ radiation?

“Dad,” he says and he sounds small and scared to his own ears, like he's a little kid again. “Am I—I'm okay, right? I'm not—am I going to—” He can't make himself ask, even though it feels like the question's choking him.

“No, no, shh, hey. You're okay, buddy,” Steve says, pulling him up against his side and Peter lets him, suddenly hyperaware of the throbbing bite on his hand. “Your dad's just being cryptic and overprotective, as usual.”

“That's right,” Tony says. “You know me.” But he's always been a terrible liar—something Peter shares with him—and Peter's stomach gives a sick lurch. “You're fine,” Tony continues. “This is just...a precaution. I don't trust those Globotech clowns.” The words are right, but his expression and his voice are all wrong. “Please,” Tony says after another minute passes in which they don't move and it makes Peter feel icy all over. “Can we just.”

His legs shake as his dads herd him onto the elevator.

~

 

Bruce is waiting for them in the lab with his head tilted slightly to the side, openly curious. The curiosity becomes surprise when he sees Peter and his brow furrows. He looks to Steve and Tony. “What's going on?”

Tony strides in ahead of Peter and Steve, tapping his knuckles on every surface within reach as he passes. He snaps his fingers at Bruce a few steps into the room and says, “Wash up, Brucie, get some gloves.”

Bruce's mouth drops open, but he turns to do as told before looking to Steve for an answer.

“Peter went on a field trip to Globotech today,” Steve says and normally Peter would be embarrassed beyond imagining because his dad's got his hand held tight in his and he's fifteen for crying out loud, but he can't make himself pull away. It feels like home. Like safety. Which is stupid, because obviously if there's something wrong with him, holding his dad's hand isn't going to make it not wrong, but it feels like that anyway. “He was bitten by a radioactive spider—Globotech's attempt to recreate something like the super soldier serum, Tony says.”

Steve's angry in a way Peter has only seen once or twice, tightly-leashed fury covered up by steely calm. It's only really noticeable in the tautness of his every muscle, the occasional throb of the tendon in his jaw.

Bruce's eyes go wide, making Peter's stomach lurch and his hand tightens around his dad's reflexively. Steve squeezes back, gentle and steady, and Tony snaps his fingers again, glancing their way, but not really looking at either of them. “Hop up here, kiddo.”

Steve moves forward first, so all Peter has to do is follow him. He refuses to let go of his hand to get up on the table where Tony wants him, so it's a little awkward, but he gets there, his heart pounding between his collarbones.

Tony has a kit full of syringes and vials and needles open on the table next to him and Bruce has washed his hands and put gloves on and they're both standing in front of Peter and all of the sudden he's never been so scared in his life.

“Hey, you're fine, Peter,” Bruce says gently, apparently aware of his mental break. “Breathe.”

“If I was you wouldn't be— _Dad!_ ” he chokes around the knot in his throat. His eyes burn and blur between blinks and during a clear spot he sees Tony's eyes go round.

“Shit. Hey, no. No no no, Peter,” he says, and then he's pulling Peter against his chest, the arc reactor's edge pressing into Peter's shoulder painfully, but he's too busy trying to breathe properly to care. “Fuck,” Tony murmurs and he smells like metal and spaghetti and what if this is the last time Peter smells that? What if he's just like all the other test subjects? He's only _fifteen_. “You are not going to die,” Tony says, his voice sharp and he pulls back, his hand hot on the back of Peter's neck. “You hear me? You are _not_ dying, so you can just stop that train of thought right there. Take your bags, throw them off, and get back on the platform, you boarded the wrong train. All those other people died within minutes of receiving the bite, Peter. I just want to do some tests and make sure everything is okay, so if there _is_ something wrong, we catch it early and fix it. But under no circumstances are you going to die, got me? I don't care _what_ I have to do.”

That vicious promise helps kind of, but Peter pulls Tony back anyway, presses his face into his neck, trying vainly to stop the little hitching breaths he's taking. He doesn't hold out his arm for Bruce until Tony's got his arms around him again, murmuring into his hair, “Jesus, kid, I kind of lost it, I know, but I didn't mean  _that_ . Sorry, sorry. God, I'm sorry. _”_  
  
Peter flinches like a baby when he feels the barely-there prick of the needle in his arm, but both his dads just crowd closer, somebody's hand on the back of his head and he tries to make himself believe what Tony's saying.

Bruce draws a lot of blood, but he does it quick, he's really good at this stuff and Peter doesn't even notice when he pulls the needle out again, except he presses gauze down over the new puncture for a second before smoothing a band-aid over it.

“There,” he says quietly. “I'll get it all set up.” He squeezes Peter's knee and adds, “You really are going to be fine, Peter. The Geiger counter didn't even pick up any radiation.”

“See,” Tony says. “Just a precaution. Overprotective me.”

“You could have saved us all a lot of grief if you'd just _told us what's going on_ ,” Steve says pointedly.

“Yes, well, I'll work on that for the future, shall I?” Tony says primly and Peter snorts out a congested laugh. The tension in Tony's body is easing away and Peter lets his do the same, reassured. _Just a precaution_ , he tells himself. _You're okay._

_~_

 

Tony and Bruce run tests on Peter until well after midnight. The further along they get, the more relaxed Tony becomes, until he's haranguing Peter about Gwen and how she never comes over for dinner.

“Speaking of Gwen,” Peter says at quarter after one, “Are we gonna be able to wrap this up soon, Dad? I've got school tomorrow, remember.” He's exhausted and his eyes are dry and tight.

“I think we should all play hooky tomorrow,” Steve says, off-handed, running his fingers through Peter's hair. Then: “You're getting a little shaggy, Pete.”

Peter waves his hands away, covering his head protectively. “I like it, leave it alone. Besides, Gwen's always touching it, she thi—”

Tony looks at him, his eyebrow slowly creeping up his forehead and his mouth twitching and Peter flushes.

“Shut _up_ , Dad.”

“Do we need to have the talk with our little boy?” Tony asks, half-wondering, half-teasing.

“God, no!” Peter says. “Clint explained everything, oh my god. If I'm lucky I might be able to block it out by the time I'm thirty and actually, you know, find the desire to have sex again.”

Tony lets out a bark of laughter and Bruce's mouth curls into a wry grin. Steve just looks fond and amused. “We raised a gentleman, he won't do anything he shouldn't.”

“You guys are so embarrassing,” Peter mutters, putting his head in his hands. “I'm going to bed.” Then he groans, remembering he's got bio homework he's gotta get done for first period. “After I do my homework. If there _isn't_ something wrong with me, I'm gonna kill you, Dad.”

“I mean it,” Steve says, dragging Peter back down when he tries to head for the door. “We should all take the day off tomorrow.”

“I thought we established that this was a false alarm,” Tony says. “And since when do you encourage delinquency?” 

“It's been a stressful night,” Steve says, tilting his chin up defiantly. “And I want the two of you where I can keep an eye on you for a little bit. Is that too much to ask?”

Tony's gaze goes soft and he glances away, flicking a glove across the room with a snap of his fingers. It falls easily into a trash bin. “All right. Day of rest it is.”

~

 

  
“Peter. ...Peter. Hey, kiddo, can you hear me? ….Peter?”

Peter groans and drags a pillow over his head. “Dad, 's too early, go'way,” he says.

There's a brief silence and Peter starts to drift off again. Then he feels a hand on his elbow. His other dad says, slowly, “Peter, it's five PM.”

Peter's brow furrows because that makes no sense. He can't have been out for more than a few minutes. He's still so tired.

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony says, his voice sharp with worry and Peter can't ignore that. He tries to open his eyes, to wake up; it's like trying to pull himself out of a thick, dark quagmire, it sucks him back down if he lets up at all.

He finally gets his eyes open and nearly loses what he's gained when he blinks and the darkness sweeps over him again.  _Why'm I this tired?_ A little jolt of fear gives him the push he needs to open them fully. Tony's head is poking over the edge of the bed, his hand on Peter's elbow. His hair's absolutely nuts, standing on end in every direction. The bed shifts at Peter's hip and he forces his eyes up. Steve looks back at him, naked concern on his face. “Hey there,” he says.

“Hey, Dad,” Peter rasps and he wants to turn and sit up so he can look at both of them properly, but his limbs feel like they're made of cement.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks.

“Tired,” Peter says. “'S really five o'clock?”

“It really is,” Tony says and now that Peter's paying attention, his body's lodging a whole host of other complaints. “Just tired?”

“H've to pee,” he says and Tony snorts. “Feel heavy. Achy.”

Tony doesn't look too surprised to hear that. “You've got a fever, so I expect you do.”

The need to pee is rapidly overpowering the lethargy and Peter shifts, grimacing as his whole body sort of throbs in response.  _Fever, that fits_ , he thinks.  _Not awesome_ .

“You okay to get up?” Steve says, curling a helpful hand around his bicep.

“Kinda stiff,” Peter says and then adds, “but I _really_ have to pee.” He gets a pair of chuckles that are half-hearted at best. Steve helps him get upright and Tony stands up and back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter really just wants to flop back down and go back to sleep, but he swings his legs out and Steve stands with him, not touching, but watching like he thinks he's Uncle Clint. “See,” Peter says when he's standing. “I'm good.” And he does feel a little better, like he's sloughing off the fatigue.

“Mhm,” Tony says skeptically. “You need a hand in there, Bambi?”

“Ew, no, absolutely not. That is the _last_ thing I need, Dad,” Peter tells him, shuddering. He can feel their gazes on him all the way to the bathroom.

When he emerges and shuffles into the living room they're both there, but they're trying too hard to look casual and Peter's pretty sure they were loitering outside the bathroom until about two seconds ago.

“Hungry?” Tony says, chipper.

“Yeah,” Peter says, surprised to find he's _starving._ He's barely gotten his butt in a chair when Steve puts a plate down in front of him. “Uh, wow. Thanks, Dad. Are we adding instant food prep to your list of heroic abilities?”

“I was making dinner before we decided to wake you up, wise guy,” Steve replies, giving him a look. “Less attitude, more eating.” Peter tosses him a lazy salute even though he knows it drives Steve crazy; it's a bad habit he picked up from Tony and he feels a little bad when his dad huffs and scowls. He gets to work on the plate to make it up to him.

He's already swallowed three or four bites when he realizes that neither of his dads is eating themselves. Tony's got his hip against the counter absently drying dishes as Steve hands them to him, but they're both watching him like he's going to burst into flames any second now.

“What?” he says and reaches up to touch his face. “Am I growing mandibles or something?”

Steve's hands tighten around a bowl he's washing and it shatters. He swears and snaps, “Don't move!” at Tony, who's barefoot. Amazingly, Tony does as he's told and freezes. “That's not funny, Peter,” Steve says tersely as he digs the dustpan out from the cabinet under the sink. “Don't— Just, don't even joke about that.”

Peter swallows the bite he's just taken with difficulty and it settles, sour in his belly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Steve stops, letting his head drop, and sighs. He puts the dustpan and brush down and covers his face for a second before standing, his expression twisted. “Peter, no. I know you're not being deliberately cavalier and I'm sorry.” He shrugs helplessly. “I'm worried.” Tony shifts, starting to move toward him and Steve throws a glare over his shoulder. “I told you not to move.”

Tony holds his hands up, eyebrows popping toward his hairline. “Oo-kay. Not moving. Nope. Staying right where I am.”

Peter's fingers curl around his fork. “I thought you said the tests were okay.”

Immediately, Tony's gaze snaps over to him. “They  _were_ okay,” he says, serious, and he's not lying. “But you slept through most of the day and it took us almost five minutes to get a response out of you when we tried to wake you up.”

“But—I'm a teenager. That's normal, right? Teenagers sleep all day all the time! It's biology!”

Tony's shoulders creep toward his ears, his hands waving around. “There's nothing wrong with you that we know how to test for! Or that we can test in twenty-four hours anyway. I mean, it's not completely ruled out, but it's incredibly unlikely. Bruce knows what kinds of things to look for—”

“ _Dad!”_

“ _Tony!”_

It occurs to him then who he's talking to and he flusters, shuffles his feet and— “ _Fuck!_ OW!”

The change snaps over Steve's face so fast Peter is sure he's blinked. "Hold still," Captain Rogers orders. "Don't move," and then he lifts Tony, as if Tony weighed as much as Peter, or less, and puts him on the counter.

"Steve," Tony complains, pulling his foot up on his knee to check it out. "Dial it back. I'm fine. Aside from being distracted by our son's existential crisis, I mean."

But he's hissing with pain and there's probably blood.

"Just. Stay—there," Cap says. Peter hears:  _Stay where I put you._ Then Steve sighs and his dad is back, weary and put-upon. “Finish your dinner, Peter.”

Peter's not really hungry anymore, but he tries anyway.

“Don't think I need stitches,” Tony says, poking at the bottom of his foot and making faces as he does while Steve finishes cleaning up the bowl shards.

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Tony huffs. “I have had my share of injuries, you know. I am capable of assessing a wound. I do worse than this in the lab all the time. Not to mention, you know, crime fighting and saving the world.”

Steve puts the dustpan back under the sink and looks up at him as he pulls out the first aid kit. “It'll make me feel better, okay? I need—” His eyes dart over to Peter for the briefest second. “—I need something I can  _do.”_

“Hey,” Tony says, voice gentle, “hey, hey, come here.”

Steve sets the first aid kit on the counter at Tony's hip and stands just out of reach, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes deliberately fixed on the fridge. “What, Tony.”

“I said _here_ ,” Tony says and leans forward to hook two fingers in his belt, then pulls Steve forward until he's standing between his knees.

“Tony,” Steve says, his arms are still crossed but looser, his eyes darting reluctantly to Tony's face. Peter tries to focus on his dinner, but it's really not that appetizing anymore, now that it's cold.

Tony's shoulders hop in a little shrug and he says casually, “You trust me right?”

Steve just gives him a look. “Against my better judgment.”

Tony wrinkles his nose at him, pokes him in the chest and Steve's arms finally come unwound so he can rub at the spot. “Well, this is our kid we're talking about. He's going to be okay if I have to give him the arc reactor out of my chest, all right? If there's something wrong, I'll find a way to fix it.” He glances over Steve's shoulder and Peter flushes when he catches his gaze. “You hear that, Bambi?” He looks back at Steve then and slides his hands up his sides, settling them at the curve of Steve's ribs. “And since he's our son, and I would readily and happily hand over my life for him in the most literal sense, we're all going to stop freaking out now. Deal?”

Peter can't see Steve's face, but he nods, Tony smiles, and then they're kissing and ew.

“Gross, guys, seriously? I have to eat here in the future.”

Tony flips him off, pulls Steve closer, and Peter groans.

“ _Really?”_

He turns around and tries to tune them out after that. After a minute or so, Tony says, a little breathless—ew ew ew no  _why_ —“This is what a healthy relationship looks like, kiddo. Soak it in.”

“You guys are seriously the _worst,”_ Peter grumbles.

“Your dad's right,” Steve says and he sounds a lot happier, which isn't horrible, or it wouldn't be if it weren't for _kissing_.

Peter feels a little nauseated. “I'm going to throw up,” he announces.

His dads just laugh. Jerks.

~

Tony's only just closed his eyes when JARVIS murmurs, “Sir.”

His eyes pop open. “Peter?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies and there's something like worry in the modulation of his voice that catapults Tony out of bed. Steve doesn't move, heedless of the noise and the movement, his body trained to sleep and sleep _good_ when it's given the opportunity.

The tile floors are cool against Tony's bare feet, which slap noisily as he runs for Peter's bedroom. He curses himself for not asking what's wrong and immediately follows that with resigned forgiveness because he'll be there before JARVIS could explain anyway. Damn Globotech and their stupid fucking experiments—

He throws open the door to Peter's room and finds the lights up—thank you, JARVIS—and Peter leaning over the side of his bed, puke dripping sluggishly down the sheets to a puddle on the floor. “Shit,” Tony says and Peter lets out a strangled sort of laugh before he gags and heaves again. Well, this certainly isn't _good,_ radioactive spider-bite or not. “Steve!” he yells, knowing that will be enough, and crawls up the bed behind Peter, puts his hand right in the middle of the kid's bony back. He's warm even through the material of his t-shirt and Tony has to swallow down a surge of fear. _The tests, the tests,_ he tells himself, _remember the tests; trace amounts of venom, next to zero radioactivity._

“What happened?” comes Steve's voice, breathless, and that's a pure fear reaction. The serum makes it nearly impossible for him to fatigue like that, especially not the fifty feet or so between here and their bedroom.

“Hey,” Tony says and does his best impression of Steve's Captain America voice, which is pretty good if he does say so himself. “Remember our deal.”

Steve's staring at Peter, his chest rising and falling visibly with every breath, but he swallows and curls his hand into a fist and says, “I'm good.”

He's not really, Tony knows, but he's got himself under control at least. “Okay. Peter?”

The noise he gets in response is a moan-whimper type thing that makes his gut twist. Tony knows  _this_ brand of misery all too well. “Think you're about spent?” he asks.

“Think so,” Peter mutters and spits weakly, grimacing.

“Okay, we're gonna get you up outta this mess and get you set up in the bathroom so you can have some cool porcelain to cling to. JARVIS, send in the 'bots to take care of this. And send Bruce up, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies.

“All right,” Tony says and decides he's going to treat this just like every other flu Peter's ever had until he has reason to do otherwise. Denial's always worked great for him. “Let's get you out of this fabulously vomit-adorned shirt, shall we?” He hooks his hands under Peter's arms and drags him upright, which actually takes some serious effort, the kid may be skinny, but he's not handling his own weight right now. He's floppy and loose-limbed and he sinks back against Tony's chest as soon as he moves his hands, his head lolling back on Tony's shoulder.

A groan seeps out of his chest and Tony recognizes the sound for the omg-going-to-puke-soon indicator it is. “Yeah, all right, I know, buddy. Shallow breaths, swallow. Just keep it under control for another second.” He tugs Peter's shirt up and pulls it off. “You're lucky I have a lot of experience with vomit,” he informs him cheerfully and Peter makes a noise of disgust. The muscles in his torso make a distinctive upward motion and Tony pushes Peter forward so when he retches, what he brings up goes on the floor and not on their persons. He rubs the heel of his hand along Peter's spine in long, circular motions, waiting the spasms out. When he finally stops, Peter hangs in Tony's grip, panting and shivering. Tony draws him back, subdued, and says, “Hey, Steve, you wanna do the honors?”

Steve doesn't say anything, but the bed sinks under his weight a second later. Tony helps turn Peter onto his back and then Steve slips his arms under his knees and around his back, picks him up like he's still five-years-old. Steve draws him close to his chest, presses his lips to the crown of Peter's head and Peter leans into him, wraps his hand around the fabric of his t-shirt. Tony can't resist touching both of them, brushing back Peter's hair and squeezing Steve's shoulder. These are his guys,  _his_ , and it pisses him off that the imbeciles at Globotech have poisoned them with this fear. Someone's going to pay for their carelessness, and dearly. Nobody fucks with Tony Stark's family.

Neither of them says a word, but both he and Steve make for their bathroom, Tony pausing to haul the comforter off of their bed before darting in ahead of him to dump it next to the toilet. He's spent his fair-share of nights hugging the toilet bowl, so he knows it's better with something soft and warm to curl up in between puking jags.

“Dad— Dad— Put me down—” Peter chokes and Steve just about drops to get him down as fast as he can. Peter drags himself over the bowl and as he starts heaving, Tony can see Steve's abs clench sympathetically.

“Hand me a washcloth, Tony? Damp,” Steve says quietly, crouching and putting a hand on Peter's lower back. Tony digs a washcloth out of one of the drawers by the sink and wets it, all without ever looking away from them. Watching Steve take care of Peter has never failed to short out his lungs. It's bittersweet, this sharp lance of pain that strikes him when he wonders why his father didn't do—why he wasn't important enough—but then it's this _balloon,_ expanded to bursting inside him, so fucking grateful that even if he can't, Steve makes sure Peter gets everything he never did.

He holds the dripping washcloth out, still staring and Steve shoots him a look from under his brows, exasperated, and wrings it out over the tub. By now Peter's bowed over the seat, breathing like he's just run a marathon, spitting weakly and clumsily every so often. Steve puts the rag to the back of Peter's neck and Peter groans, bending forward until his forehead's resting against the back of the seat, his eyes closed. Steve wipes along the sides of his face and then lays the washcloth across the back of Peter's neck and draws his fingers through Peter's hair, peering at his face, ever watchful. “Doin' okay, buddy?”

“Okay's I can be,” Peter mumbles, his voice echoing up out of the toilet bowl. “This sucks.”

“Blows, actually,” Tony says automatically. “Blows chunks, if we're going to be specific, and of course we should be, that's the scientific method.”

Peter groans and turns his head enough that he can glare up at Tony through one eye. “You did not. You did not just.”

Tony pulls one hand from the crook of his elbow so he can wave it around. “What, it's apropros.”

Then Peter moans and turns his face back down. “We are not related. I refuse.”

Steve's mouth curls with amusement as he pats Peter's shoulder and says, “Sorry, kiddo. You're fifty percent his, we made sure of it.”

“I'm throwing up everything we've collectively eaten since I was born, you could at least let me pretend for awhile.”

It's a joke. Tony knows it's a joke. He's a teenager this is what they  _do_ and Tony  _knows_ that, but goddamn it if it still doesn't feel like a knife sliding between his ribs. He tries to smile and feels his mouth twitch, but it's all wrong.  _We are not my family,_ he tells himself sternly.  _We are_ not _my family._

“ _Dad_ ,” Peter says suddenly and he sounds exasperated.

“Huh?” Tony says, pulling himself out of his own head. “What?”

“I can hear you thinking stupid things from all the way over here,” Peter says and he's got his face turned all the way now so he can look at Tony with both eyes, serious. His skin's practically the same color as the toilet. “Stop it.”

Tony sniffs and steps back, crossing his arms over the arc reactor, his hands curled around his ribs. “Don't be ridiculous. I never think stupid things. That's absurd. I have never had a single stupid thought in my life. If I ever had a stupid thought—”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve says affectionately and rolls up onto his feet in one motion, grabbing Tony before he can back away any further.

“Hey,” he protests, “Get off of me, you big oaf. If I want to get groped I'll go to a strip club.”

“No, you won't,” Steve murmurs, nuzzling his temple and pulling him closer. “You'd never leave Peter when he's sick like this.”

Tony opens his mouth to argue, but he really can't. He can't even fake that argument. “I—”

Steve gives him a squeeze, tight enough to take his breath away for a second and then he pushes him down next to Peter, with just enough pressure that his legs give and he drops on his ass and skids a few inches to the tub. “Ow, hey. Watch it, I'm breakable.”

“I know your limits,” Steve says with a slow grin that makes Tony swallow with difficulty and Peter mutter, “Ew, Dad.”

Then Peter's burrowing into his chest, muttering irritably when he smacks his head on the arc reactor and then wadding up the comforter over it and pushing and prodding Tony until he's comfortable. He's like a furnace now and Tony starts sweating almost instantly.

“Do I look like a pillow to you?”

“Mm,” Peter mumbles. “T'lk too m'ch.”

Tony snorts and after a second, brushes his fingers through Peter's hair. Peter hums and presses closer. It's like he's seven all over again, bowled over by the flu, clingy and unbearably hot. Tony wraps his arm around him tighter and presses his mouth to the top of his head. “I don't... I know I don't say it much...” he starts after clearing his throat half a dozen times. “But, Peter—”

“I love you, Dad,” Peter says. “Even when you're ridiculous.”

Tony blinks and his fingers tighten and he sucks in a sharp breath.

_God, Stark_ , he thinks,  _you really are the worst father ever._

~

 

Steve brings Bruce and a cup of juice when he comes back. “Look who I found in the living room,” he says and he's glad to see Tony still clutching Peter like a teddy bear, his eyes soft, the way they always get when he thinks no one's watching him. Tony has this crazy idea that he doesn't love Peter  _enough_ and Steve can't understand that. Steve's not sure anyone's ever been loved as fervently as Tony loves Peter. It baffles him that Tony can't see it himself.

 

“Hey, quiet,” Tony orders in a low voice. “I think he's asleep again.” He glances up after a beat, his eyes darting between the two of them and then zeroing in on Bruce. Steve's not sure if it's actually his expression that changes or if it's just something Steve can sense after so much time, but there's a sharp kind of anxiety there somewhere when he says, “We did the tests right, didn't we? He was clean.”

“Absolutely,” Bruce says, equally low, and shakes his head slightly. “All the tests were negative. Don't worry,” he adds, soothing. “He's a teenager. Schools are like petri dishes. He probably just caught the flu. It's coincidence.”

Tony takes a shaky breath and glances down at the boy in his arms. “Right. I know that. I mean, he's been spending all his time with that Stacy kid, he's probably got mono.”

“Tony,” Steve says, chiding. “Gwen's a nice girl, don't talk like that about her.” Tony's always leery of anyone who shows an interest in Peter, quick to blame them for anything that goes wrong in their son's life.

Bruce snorts indulgently. “Let's not jump to  _any_ conclusions until we have some more evidence. How about that.”

“You need more samples,” Tony says and looks down at Peter again, and he frowns. “He just got to sleep, I hate to wake him up so soon.”

“No, it's fine,” Bruce says. “I can check his temperature under his arm and—” He gestures at Peter's slack mouth, a grin playing at his lips. “—I don't think getting a swab will be a problem.”

“Ah, yes,” Tony says and nods regally. “Our son. Isn't he beautiful? The fairest in the land.”

Steve can't help a huff of laughter, especially when the bead of drool that's been gathering on Peter's lower lip finally dribbles over and drips down in a long string onto Tony's t-shirt. Tony watches this, too, with exasperation, and says, “Seriously. Kid's a lady-killer. Everybody else go home, no contest, winner takes all.”

Tony jokes now, but Steve remembers the day Peter was born, the look of unadulterated awe on Tony's face when the nurses brought their little boy out, wrapped in a tiny, fuzzy blue blanket. He'd been so small he could have fit in one of Steve's hands easily, but Steve had cradled him close with both arms, Tony practically standing on top of him, his mouth open.  _“Look at his nose,”_ he'd said.  _“Jesus Christ, Steve, look at how tiny his nose is. Look at his fingers!”_

Steve had been amused.  _“Haven't you ever seen a baby before?”_

“ _Sure, on_ TV. _Are you sure he's supposed to be this small? I mean, my god. We could break him and we wouldn't even realize until it was too late.”_

“ _We're not going to break him_ ,” Steve told him.

“ _I don't know,”_ Tony said, skeptically. _“I break stuff all the time. Lots of stuff. Your stuff, my stuff—I've kind of made a career—_ two _, out of breaking stuff.”_ He shuffled back, his expression clouding over with anxiety and Steve grabbed his arm, pulled it out and around to create the perfect cradle.

Then he eased Peter into it, ignoring Tony's audible gulp and the abject terror on his face, and said,  _“You've got him.”_

Tony had, of course, drawn Peter protectively against his chest, staring wide-eyed.  _“Hey. Hey, there, you.”_

One little fist had broken free of the blanket then, smacking against Tony's chest just beside the arc reactor, two round eyes blinking sleepily up at him, and it was like watching a revelation, the way Tony's face had just opened. Indescribable. “ _Holy shit,”_ Tony breathed. _“This is_ us _. I've never seen anything so fucking beautiful—how the fuck did we—Jesus,  _ look  _ at him, Steve _ .”

 

And that had pretty much been the default expression on Tony's face when he looked at Peter from then on. Steve loved Peter, loved him with everything he had, but Tony, Tony  _ worshiped _ Peter.

“His temperature's a hundred degrees exactly,” Bruce says, sitting back on his heels. “Low-grade. That's a good sign.”

“Yeah?” Tony says, perking up. “Fantastic.”

“Now I'll just...” Bruce leans forward again, carefully inserting a swab through Peter's parted lips. It only takes a second and then he's drawing back, dropping the swab into a tiny sterile container. “That should be all I need. The flu tests take about fifteen minutes, we'll start there and see what turns up. In the meantime, make sure he gets that juice in him when he wakes up, maybe some crackers, too.”

“Gotcha,” Tony says. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You're welcome,” Bruce says, wry, and Steve moves forward to offer a hand when he reaches for the counter to lever himself to his feet. “Thanks,” he says, massaging one knee with his free hand.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Steve says, holding on to his hand for a moment, catching his eye.

Bruce smiles and ducks his head. “This is—it's nothing, really.” He shrugs and glances over his shoulder. “It's Peter.”

Steve knows it will startle Bruce, but he pulls him into a hug anyway. “It's not nothing. You're keeping Tony from losing his head. That's no easy task.”

Bruce chuckles into his shoulder and pats his back twice before leaning back. “True, true.”

“Can you two go talk about me somewhere else,” Tony says with lofty peevishness. “My kid's sleeping here, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” Bruce says, hands held up in surrender. He slips the sample into his bag and then moves to the door. “I'll let you know when I've got something.”

“You do that,” Tony says and then Bruce is gone. Steve leans into the counter, watching Tony shift slightly under Peter, grimacing. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm too old to be sitting on the bathroom floor.”

Steve smiles, holds out his hands in offering. “You want me to take him?”

“No,” Tony says immediately and Steve tries not to let his smile widen when his arm tightens slightly around Peter. When Steve makes no further moves, Tony eyes him suspiciously. “Are you just going to stand there and stare or what? Get over here.”

“The view's pretty nice from here,” Steve replies.

“God, you're corny. Before I change my mind.” He waves his hand insistently and Steve allows himself a grin, pushing off the counter and easing down next to Tony, his back against the tub, their shoulders touching.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, Tony staring kind of vacantly off into space, his fingers running through Peter's hair in lazy loops and curly cues, Steve watching and oddly soothed by the sight. Finally he yawns, stretching, and Tony's giving him a look equal parts suspicious and incredulous when he lets his arm settle across the rim of the tub behind Tony's shoulders. The look of absolute incredulity on his face that follows is priceless.

“You did not just  _ fake yawn  _ so you could use The Move on me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Steve says, directing another yawn into the palm of his free hand. He lets the other creep onto Tony's shoulder.

“Oh my god, fake yawn _ s! _ Plural! To use The Move on me! How old is that move anyway?” he demands.

Peter snuffles, frowning in his sleep, and turns his face into Tony's chest, smearing drool across the logo of the shirt.

“You're going to wake him up,” Steve tells Tony quietly, chastising, and he can barely contain his laughter.

“You— I—” Tony splutters. “ _ You started—” _

 

Steve curls his hand around Tony's neck and kisses him to shut him up. Sometimes, that's really the only way.

~

 

Peter wakes to the sound of voices. Steve's voice in particular is vibrating just beneath his ear and he realizes he's slumped against his dad's chest, curled up in his lap. That's a little embarrassing, but...nice.

“...are we dealing with then?” he's saying, his voice quiet, not that it helps much with Peter's ear pressed to his chest. “If it's not the flu then what?” Peter can feel it rumble in his gut, stoking the nausea lingering in the pit of his stomach.

“I need more data,” Bruce replies. “None of his symptoms are out of the ordinary or life-threatening. The best thing you can do for him right now is stay calm.”

“I'm calm,” Tony says and Peter would laugh if he had the energy because he's very clearly  _ not _ . “Who says I'm not calm? I'm perfectly calm. Steve's the one losing his head here. I'm cool as a cucumber.”

“A cucumber on fire, maybe,” Steve says and one of his hands moves to Peter's back, his thumb rubbing circles on his shoulder.

Peter snorts. It makes his whole face ache, right to the roots of his hair.

“Hey,” Tony says and Peter hears his bare feet on tile, the bandages on the left scuffing slightly. “Peter? Buddy?”

It takes Hulk-level effort to pry his eyes open and the dim lights of the bathroom stab straight into his brain. “Yeah, Dad,” he says and it feels like he's talking through a throat full of crumpled paper.

“Hey,” Tony says, his face softening and some of the tension easing out. “How're you feeling, Bambi?”

“Shitty,” Peter mumbles and feels more than hears the noise of disapproval Steve makes.

“Language.”

“'s true,” Peter mutters and grimaces as he shifts. God, it's like he went too far working out, only _his whole body._

“You still nauseous?” Tony asks.

“Don't remind me,” Peter replies, squints around the bathroom. It's still dark based on what he can see through the door to the bedroom. “How long's I asleep?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his fingers absently against Peter's calf. “'Bout twenty minutes.”

Peter tries to lift his hand to swat Tony's away, but only manages to waggle his fingers a little. “Don't do that,” he says. It's making his whole leg throb.

Tony takes a second to realize what Peter's talking about and then he pulls his hand back, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Sorry. Annoying?”

Peter shakes his head and closes his eyes again. It's too hard to keep them open. “No. Hurts.”

“It hurts?” Tony echoes, his voice sharpening. Part of Peter wants to assure him it's just the usual ache he gets when he's sick, but the effort is too much. Which, of course, means his dad will force the issue. “Peter.”

He sighs and drags his eyes open. “I'm just achy, Dad. Chill out.”

“ _Chill out_ —”

“Tony,” Steve says, warning.

Tony twists around, looking back over his shoulder. “Bruce?”

“It's fine, Tony. Aches are a common symptom of a fever. Peter, I'd like to do an exam, if that's all right with you?”

“Okay,” Peter croaks. “Just a second.” And he heaves himself out of Steve's lap, clutching the toilet seat as he gags and chokes until it feels like the muscles in his abdomen are going to rip off of his skeleton. When the spasms finally ease, Peter slumps against the porcelain, arms shaking so hard he can barely hold on with sweat-slicked palms. His face is damp with sweat and maybe tears—that's definitely what's clumping his eyelashes together. He reaches up with one trembling hand and flushes the toilet so he can just pant and try to regroup his strength for a minute without the smell getting him started all over again.

“Peter?” Steve says, quiet and almost tentative.

Peter pushes back onto his heels, and aside from the sharp aching in his wrists and his knees, and okay, pretty much everywhere, he feels a heck of a lot better. Weak as a tissue, but better. He pushes back the sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, wipes his mouth, and tries to smile at the three men watching him with varying expressions of concern. “I'm. I'm good,” he says and when Tony's face starts to contort he amends, “Better. That helped. Really.”

His dads don't look super convinced, but Bruce looks pleased. “Great. I'll give you some Dramamine so you can try to get some rest and you should drink the—what was it you brought, Steve?”

Steve finally tears his eyes away from Peter's face. “What? Oh. Coconut water. Mixed with pineapple juice, I think? It's Tony's.”

“Eugh,” Peter says, grimacing. “I hate that stuff. It's all. Salty.”

“You've been throwing up a lot,” Bruce says, “it'll probably taste pretty sweet right now.”

Peter's nose wrinkles, but he accepts the glass Steve retrieves off of the counter for him, holding it with both hands because his arms are still too wobbly for one to support it alone. He takes a wary sip and is surprised to find Bruce is right. A little of the saltiness is still there, but it's way more pleasant than he remembers.

“You sure you're not going to puke anymore?” Tony asks. “'Cause you can have our bed if you are. If you're not, that's our marriage bed and I'd prefer you didn't sully it with whatever pathogen you've got crawling around inside you right now.”

 

“I'm more concerned about what _you've_ sullied it with, Dad.”

Tony smirks. “It's cute that you think it's the bed you have to worry about.”

“Tony!” Steve protests, but it's with a long-suffering understanding of how futile the effort is. “Peter, I always wash the sheets—”

“ _Dad_ , no _ , _ that is not helping! _ ” _

 

“Do you want me to set up a bed in the medbay for you?” Bruce asks, taking pity on him at last.

“He's not that bad,” Tony says, scoffing, and then doubt flickers across his face. “You're not that bad, right?”

Peter purses his lips, considering. Mostly to make his dad sweat.

“ _ Peter? _ ” he all but yells and Steve frowns, starts to open his mouth.

With a roll of his eyes, Peter says, “No, dads' bed is fine.”

Steve doesn't bother asking if he wants to try and get there himself, just scoops him up and carries him to the bed, sliding him into the flung open right side of the bed, conscious of the glass in Peter's hands. Peter sinks into the pile of pillows, which, even though they're the same kind of pillows as on his bed, always feel more comfortable. Steve pulls the sheet over his legs and then tosses the comforter out over him, too, and it settles onto the bed, cozy and warm.

“Here,” Bruce says, and holds out a hand, dropping a pill into Peter's palm when he reaches out. “The Dramamine.” Peter swallows it and chases it with a small sip out of the glass, which Bruce then tips back up to his mouth. “At least half, please.”

Peter's not sure he can manage that, but he brings the glass back to his lips and finds his dads with his eyes.

Tony's pacing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, right hand playing with his goatee. He's back to agitated and his eyes keep darting from the window and the general direction of Globotech to Peter with a very brief stop on Bruce, who's settled down on the bed at Peter's hip. “Let's get that exam done.”

Peter nods, feeling the weariness already starting to creep back over him. He lets Bruce slip the thermometer in his mouth again and then just lays there, as Bruce reaches up and presses his fingers carefully into the sides of Peter's neck. Bruce's touches are as gentle as they come, but all of him aches  _ un _ touched, so he winces and Tony's eyebrows flatten, pure anger stealing across his features.

“JARVIS, get me Dick Krantz on the line, now.”

Steve frowns from where he stands half-way between the bed and the bathroom. “Who are you calling at this hour, Tony? It's—” His eyes cut to the alarm clock on the bedside table. “It's almost one o'clock in the morning.”

Peter groans around the thermometer. “Dad, no—”

“Hey, hey,” Bruce says, eyebrows rising meaningfully and Peter shuts up, chastened.

“I'm calling Dick fucking Krantz because this is that asshole's fault.”

There's a silence in which Steve still obviously doesn't quite understand and Bruce says, “Dick Krantz owns Globotech.”

Steve sighs. “Tony, it's almost one o'clock in the morning and you can't blame him for this, he—”

“Like hell I can't!” Tony snaps and jabs a finger at him. “Nobody who works for me is that fucking careless! That thing was  _ radioactive,  _ Steve. The same shit that caused Hulk—no offense, Bruce—and that powers the goddamn  _ A-bombs.  _ That causes  _ cancer _ . You don't let any jerk off the street transport something that dangerous, especially not in areas that tours of schoolchildren go through!”

“I understand,” Steve says, fighting for patience, “but it's one o'clock in the morning and now is not the time—”

“So what, you want me to let him open his doors again tomorrow morning, see if a radioactive monkey gets loose while a bunch of kids just stroll through?”

“You know that's not what I want.”

Peter's head is starting to throb listening to them. “Can you guys just—not,” he says and his dads' eyes immediately jump to him and after a second they both stand down, chagrined.

“Maybe you should step out until I'm done,” Bruce suggests, mild, but firm.

Neither of them looks happy about that, but they nod and slink out.

~

 

“ _ Fuck!”  _ Tony snarls and stalks out into the living room. He steps on something with his bandaged foot and his leg buckles. He spits another string of vitriol and rights himself, hobbling into the kitchen where he starts slamming the cabinets open and closed like he's looking for something. Steve's doesn't think he knows what, exactly.

He rubs a hand over his own eyes, lets out a long breath and bends to pick up the—he's not sure what it is, but it's metal, so it's probably Tony's. He sets it on the coffee table and then notices a blanket on the couch, sliding toward the floor and he retrieves it, folds it in half and then again before laying it neatly across the back of the couch.

He's reaching for a pair of socks, one on the floor, the other stuffed between the couch cushions, when Tony says, “What the hell are you doing? We have 'bots for that. Stop it.”

Steve grits his teeth, feels the muscle in his jaw tense, and counts to ten. “I need something to do.” When he can bring himself to look up, Tony's got a tumbler sitting on the counter, a bottle of something amber-colored in his hand.

“I'll give you something you can do,” Tony says, pointing the neck of the bottle at him. “You can get over here and we can call dearest Dick and wake him from a perfectly restful night of sleep, seeing as he has no soul to cause him any trouble with that.” Then he fills the tumbler to the top.

“You really want to drink all that?” Steve says and Tony sniffs at him insolently and swallows a mouthful.

“Why shouldn't I?”

Steve shrugs and spreads his arms. “Oh, I don't know, maybe because Bruce might need you in the lab? Unless of course, you're okay with being drunk when you treat our son.” He wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated gesture of dismissal. “Nah, that's fine, that's nothing like what Mister Krantz did.”

As soon as it's out of his mouth, Steve realizes he's a little less in control of his emotions than he thought. He closes his eyes and presses a hand down over his mouth, breathing again. He  _ hates _ losing his cool like that. Tony's always been too good at pushing him over that edge.

“Tony, I'm sorry. That was—”

“No, you're right,” Tony says and Steve almost doesn't hear him, he sounds so restrained now. The bottle clinks as he sets it down on the counter. “Fuck,” he adds and then Steve hears the sound of the liquor being tossed in the sink, ice clattering noisily. “Jesus, what's wrong with me.”

“You're upset,” Steve says. “We both are.”

Before he can say anymore, the bedroom door opens and they both turn. Tony immediately starts forward, but Bruce steps out and closes the door very deliberately behind him, looking steadily between the two of them. Tony stops, open-mouthed.

“You guys might try to remember that these walls aren't soundproofed,” Bruce says quietly and Steve feels his face flush.

He sits down on the couch, legs all but dropping him there, and covers his face with his hands. “Peter heard?”

“Just a few choice lines, but the gist of it was pretty clear.” He pauses, letting that sink in for a moment and then says, “I know you're worried, but Peter's still just a kid. You freaking out freaks him out. If you stay  _ calm...” _

 

“Not all of us have your admirable control,” Tony shoots at him. “If it was your fucking kid—”

“I'd be at my wit's end,” Bruce agrees. “I'm not terribly objective right  _ now _ , to be honest. Peter's the closest thing I have and—” He breathes in through his nose and then flashes a small, rueful smile at them. “I empathize, is what I'm saying. But you need to keep it under control, for his sake.” After another brief pause, he says, “I'm going back to the lab now. Peter's resting and JARVIS will let us know if there's the slightest change, I'm sure.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS intones, quietly.

“I think you two should come with me,” Bruce concludes.

Steve looks at Tony, watches him try to chew a hole in his lip as he stares at the door of their bedroom like he can see right through it if he stares hard enough. Finally Tony says, “JARVIS, I want you monitoring him like a hawk. If he's not sleeping, I wanna know. If gets up to puke, I wanna know. If he gets up to pee, I—”

“I think I have the idea, sir.”

“Uppity bastard,” Tony mutters, but he pop-snaps his hands and points at the elevator. “Shall we?”

Steve knows Peter's not going to be any safer if he stays here and the 'bots are actually very good at keeping the place clean, so, reluctantly, he moves to join Bruce and Tony. He's in over his head with all of this, understanding just enough for it to scare the daylights out of him, but Bruce is very good at what he does, he reminds himself. He just has to stay calm and take care of Peter. That, he knows he can do.

~

 

Steve picks up a StarkPad not long after the three of them retreat to the lab because it's not like he's going to be any help with any of this science stuff. That's all Bruce and Tony. But he has to keep himself occupied somehow or he's going to lose his mind stewing over Peter, imagining him up in their bed, miserable and shivering and...

 

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself firmly and drops his gaze to the newspaper he's got open on the Pad. There's a little red alert over the first icon at the bottom of the screen and his eyebrows rise, curiosity piqued. He taps it and watches with interest as the newspaper shrinks and vanishes, replaced by the message program the team frequently uses to communicate within the Tower.

 

_A little birdy—and, by a little birdy, I mean myself—tells me Pete's under the weather._

 

Steve huffs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth despite himself.

 

 _How many times do I have to tell you, Clint, spying on everybody in the middle of the night is weird_ , he types back.

 

 _Not spying_ , Clint replies, _Perimeter check_.

 

_Do you understand the meaning of the word "perimeter"?_

 

_1\. the border or outer boundary of a two-dimensional figure_

 

_Copy-pasting doesn't count, Clint._

 

Clint's cheeky responses are exactly the pick-me-up Steve needs, but Clint doesn't take long to get impatient.

 

_So Pete's sick?_

 

Steve sighs and taps out, _Yeah, throwing up, etc._

 

_Flu?_

 

 _No._ Steve squeezes one hand between his knees. Hesitates and then types, _Tony's worried. Peter was bit the other day on a field trip._

 

 _Bit?_ comes back instantly.

 

 _Radioactive spider._ Part of Steve finds it strange that he doesn't find that phrase unusual.

 

Clint doesn't reply after that and Steve waits for almost five minutes before giving up on the conversation. He's tapping back to the newspaper when a vent on the wall in the corner pops out, startling both Bruce and Tony—Tony swearing as he smacks his head into a swivel screen. Clint slides out of the duct and drops to the floor, his eyes immediately finding Steve.

 

"Radioactive spider?" he says, incredulous.

 

"Hello to you, too, Barton," Tony says peevishly.

 

"How the hell did he get near a radioactive spider?" Clint demands.

 

Steve shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. He said it was on the railing in one of the rooms they walked through. He saw a broken container a few feet away on the walkway."

 

"What the fuck was a radio active spider specimen doing on a walkway that classes of kids take during tours? That's—there's something wrong with that. That's gotta be illegal."

 

"Um, duh," Tony replies, back to squinting at the tiny glass slides spread out in front of him as he carefully distributes drops of Peter's blood onto them with a thin plastic tube. "That fucker is going to jail first thing in the morning."

 

"I could go over there _now,"_ Clint says and Steve frowns.

 

"No. We're not vigilantes, Clint." Clint's face wrinkles with distaste, but Steve says, " _No_ ," again firmly and he subsides.

 

"What are you testing for?" he asks instead and reaches out for one of the microscopes.

 

"Don't touch," Bruce orders, giving him a sharp look and Clint pulls his hands back, displaying his palms. After that, he retreats to where Steve is, hopping up on the lab table next to him and swinging his feet. "We're testing for everything," Bruce answers, once he's far enough away.

 

"Everything?" Clint echoes. "Ambitious."

 

But something is happening in the microscope Bruce is looking into apparently, because he says, voice suddenly tense, "Tony. Come look at this."

 

Steve feels his stomach give a slow roll of unease.

 

Clint nudges Steve's knee with the toes of his right foot and looks him in the eye, says, "You okay?"

 

"Yeah," Steve says, tearing his gaze away from Tony pressing his face to the microscope. "I guess. I mean. I don't know. Radioactive, that's...bad. Really bad, right? And they keep saying the initial tests were okay, but now Peter's sick and..." He sighs. "I'm just worried."

 

"That's only natural," Clint says. "And you've got the Science Wonder Twins over here feeding you your information, that can't be easy."

 

Steve's mouth curls slightly. "No," he says, "You're right." He glances back over at Tony and his husband is muttering something to Bruce in a low, fast voice.

 

Steve swallows. He doesn't want to be here anymore, not when they're like this. He stands abruptly and Clint's eyebrows go up with him. "I'm going to go check on Peter."

 

Neither Bruce nor Tony looks up or even acknowledges he's said anything. He goes.

 

Clint follows at his heels, hands in his pockets, but his gait matching Steve's long, hurried strides. "I'm sure it's nothing, Steve," he says, his voice low.

 

Steve should say something, look at him, make some kind of gesture to show he's heard, it's only polite, but he can't. All the anxiety of the last thirteen hours is coming to a head and he wants to run or hit something, _anything._ He just needs to see Peter's face, reassure himself that he's doing okay and then.

 

He's barely aware of Clint still following him onto their floor, as he crosses the living room and then carefully eases the door to his and Tony's bedroom open. A blade of light cuts over the corner of the bed and out of the corner of his eye, he sees something move. He lashes out, but the intruder just leaps nimbly back out of reach and a second later he hears a familiar voice say, "Steve. Steve, it's me. Natasha."

 

His heart is pounding, the blood rushing in his ears when the lights of the city frame her curves and he breathes, "Dammit, Natasha."

 

"I'm sorry," she says, holding out an apologetic hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."

 

Then Peter's voice, small and raspy, comes from the bed and he forgets all about her. "Dad? Aunt Nat?"

 

The lights come up ever-so-slightly, not enough to affect his night vision, but enough to allow him to see Peter, curled up on the bed, almost disappearing into the heaps of bedding. "I'm here, Peter," he says and feels the tightness in his chest ease a little when he looks into Peter's face and finds him blinking groggily back at him. He sits on the edge of the mattress and brushes Peter's hair back. "How are you feeling?"

 

"Oh, peachy," Peter rasps, smiling wanly. "Never better."

 

Steve spots the glass on the bedside table, still almost half full. "Thirsty?"

 

"Umm...a little."

 

A pale, slender hand drops a bendy straw into the glass and Steve shoots a grateful glance over his shoulder as Natasha slides back to join Clint near the door. "Here, have a few sips," Steve says, holding it so the straw is in reach.

 

Peter takes a few drags from the straw and then drops his head again, blinks growing longer and slower. "'m tired," he mumbles and Steve rubs his hand down Peter's arm.

 

"I know you are, kiddo." He sets the glass back on the bedside table and when he turns back, Peter's scratching his arm all along the path Steve's hand took. He frowns. And that's when he realizes that Peter's not just resting his other hand at his neck, but his fingers are scratching languidly there, too. "Peter?" he says, laying his hands over both of Peter's.

 

"'m itchy, Dad," he mumbles, his fingers still scratching, even under the pressure of Steve's hands. He feels his stomach drop.

 

"JARVIS, lights," he orders and the lights immediately brighten. It takes just a second for his eyes to adjust and then he can see a splotchy red pattern crawling up Peter's neck from under his shirt and down his left arm, brightest around the bite on his hand. Fear shoots up his spine, icy cold. Maybe it's nothing, but maybe it isn't either. "JARVIS—"

 

"Mister Stark and Doctor Banner are on their way, sir," JARVIS tells him calmly.

 

Steve takes both of Peter's hands in his and draws them away from his body. That seems to wake him up a little. He tries to tug away.

 

"I'm all itchy, Dad, let me go," he complains.

 

"You know scratching will just make it worse," Steve tells him. "Bruce is on his way. I'm sure he'll have something to make you more comfortable."

 

Peter huffs in annoyance, but he doesn't try to drag his hands back. Just a few seconds later Tony comes flying through the door, his eyes wild. Bruce follows, more composed.

 

"What is it? Peter? What happened?" Tony demands, rapid-fire.

 

Steve swivels, gestures Tony over with a tilt of his head. "He's itchy."

 

"It's like poison ivy all over again," Peter grumbles.

 

Tony moves to the bed in a few quick strides and Steve draws Peter's arm out so he can see the bright red around the bite, the splotchy trail of it up under the sleeve of Peter's t-shirt. Tony swallows, the tendon in his jaw pulsing.

 

"Oh," Bruce says softly and takes a shaky little breath.

 

Definitely not good then.

 

Tony grabs Bruce's arm and the two of them retreat to the far corner by the window and start whispering furiously back and forth, Tony's gestures wild and just this side of hysterical. Steve drags his eyes away and tries to smile down at Peter. "Just like your dad, always gotta be the center of attention."

 

Peter smirks. "It's a tough life, but someone's gotta inherit his throne." He rubs at the rash curling over his jaw and then looks speculatively at the red on his arm. "Gotten this far," he says, "Radioactive spider-pox was kinda inevitable, don't you think?"

 

"That is not funny," Tony says sharply, his voice carrying across the room.

 

Peter's mouth twitches. "It's a little funny."

 

"It _is_ a little funny," Bruce agrees, failing to smother his smile.

 

"I thought so," Clint agrees.

 

Tony just glares at them all.

 

"Don't look at me," Steve says, holding up a hand. "I didn't think it was funny." He nudges Peter's thigh with his knuckles and says in a lower voice, "Stop torturing your dad. He's stressed out enough as it is with you sick like this."

 

"Blame him," Peter says, "I got it from him."

 

Steve sighs and smiles a little. "Believe me, I know." A hand settles on his shoulder and Natasha reaches over him, holding out Peter's glass of juice, refilled and this time with ice. “Hold it in that hand, it will help with the itching.”

 

Peter smiles and accepts the glass, muttering, “Oh, yeah, that's good. Thanks, Aunt Nat.”

 

She allows a small smile in return and leans forward, kissing his forehead. “Drink.”

 

Peter presses the glass to his throat, his eyes closing for a second before he catches the straw in his mouth. Steve takes his free hand in his own and runs the pads of his fingers over the smooth skin over the small bones of his hand. Peter's got pianist's hands, slender, but strong and deft like Tony's. They'd been as long as the first knuckle of Steve's thumb when Peter was born, unbelievably tiny and silky to the touch. They're rougher now, bigger, but they still fit inside his palm easy. Peter's nowhere near done growing so it's possible one day that won't be true anymore.

 

He curls his hand around Peter's, trying to memorize the way it feels. Steve's going to miss this. Peter already refuses to hold his hand in public and Steve knows it won't be long before he'll stop allowing it all together. He's stroking the coarse hairs on the back of Peter's wrist, the ones that grow thicker and darker every day it seems like, when Peter nudges his arm with the glass. A flush creeps up Steve's neck.

 

“I can hear you brooding, Dad,” Peter says.

 

“I'm not,” Steve protests. “I'm just—”

 

“Trying to find the meaning of the universe in my arm hair?”  
  
Steve huffs and rolls his eyes. He's been in the practice of expressing himself, bluntly as he can, ever since he woke up and found out all the chances he'd missed out on. He's been determined to never stand in his own way like that again, but somehow Tony's flippancy in the face of vulnerability has rubbed off on Peter instead. So Peter squirms when Steve looks him in the eye and says, “Just trying to remember how this feels. I know you're not going to allow it much longer. I'm going to miss things like this.”

 

“What, me being sick as a dog?” Peter says, his eyes dropping and bouncing off of their entwined hands.

 

Steve doesn't let him get away with the deflection, just like he doesn't let Tony. “No. Holding your hand.” Peter colors a little and Steve leans forward and kisses his forehead, feels a pang of worry at how hot his skin is. “I love you, Pete, always have and I always will. Doesn't make it easier, watching you outgrow me.”

 

Peter looks up at him through his eyelashes, reproving. “Don't be stupid, Dad. I'm never gonna outgrow you.” He loops his arms around Steve's neck and for a second, everything's perfect.

 

“You know how much your dad and I love you, don't you, Peter?” he asks, quiet.

 

Peter snorts and squeezes him a little bit tighter. “Dad, there are a lot of things I have doubts about, but that is _never_ going to be one of them.”

Then a bolt of lightning cracks the dark sky outside, blinding Steve for a second and thunder rattles the glass in spite of all Tony's structural considerations.

“Guess who,” Clint says.

Some residual crackles of lightning and thunder grumble outside the window and Tony growls, “Fucking drama queen.”

Clint makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a hacking cough at the absolute irony in that statement, but Tony just points a finger at him without bothering to look and snaps, “Are you sick? Thinking about getting sick? Get out.”

Clint waves his hands, points at his throat and chokes, “Saliva—breathed it—”

“Yeah, I don't care,” Tony says and pulls open the bedroom door. He opens his mouth, his face like a thundercloud, but before he can say a word, Thor comes through the door, sweeping him up into a hug. “Brother!” he exclaims and Tony makes a breathless noise of indignation, his toes almost a foot off the ground. Thor sets him down a little too hard and the next noise Tony makes is pained, his knees almost buckling. He gets a white-knuckled grip around Thor's arm and Thor grips his arms back, his face twisted into an expression of sincerest concern. “Heimdall summoned me to the bridge, he said young Peter has been overtaken by some affliction?”

“What have I told you about the manhandling?” Tony demands, grimacing and rubbing at his knee. “Jesus, I think you broke something.”

Thor immediately looks contrite, reaching to touch Tony's shoulder, his grip more ginger and his gaze focused on the hand Tony has at his knee. “I apologize, I was distressed to hear of Peter's illness and I have not remembered myself. Do you need to be seated?”

Tony gives him a dirty look, but lays off the rubbing and mutters, “No, no,” and the rest drops under his breath, too low to understand.

Thor glances around the room, his face brightening when he sees Clint, Natasha, and Bruce. “Sister!” he says warmly, moving forward to grasp Natasha's elbows. He kisses her cheek and she smiles, leans up on her tiptoes to kiss both of his. “It has been too long.”  
  
“It has,” she agrees and he releases her to drag Clint and Bruce into a hug.

“Brothers.” Clint rolls his eyes, patting Thor's back as his face is mashed into the demi-god's chest plate and Bruce flushes, patting Thor's elbow gingerly.

“Good to see you, too, Thor,” he says.

Then Thor relinquishes his grip on them as well and his gaze moves to the bed and all of the merriness in his face drains away. Steve stands to face him, reluctantly giving up his hold on Peter's hand and Thor strides forward, drawing him into a rib-crushing hug. Steve can't help but smile, hugging back. “Hey, Thor. We've missed you around here.”

“And I you,” Thor says. “Things in Asgard have been, well... _strained,_ shall we say.” He waves his hand before Steve can ask and says, “But I have not come to speak of my troubles.” Thor looks to Peter, a smile warming his features again and says, “What mischief have you been involved in that has resulted in this, Peter?”  
  
“Me?” Peter says, mock-innocent. “Mischief? Never.”

Thor laughs and then sits on the edge of the bed, leaning toward Peter, who tilts his head forward to listen, a grin creeping across his face as Thor addresses him in conspiratorial tones.

“Steve,” Bruce says and when he turns to look, Bruce tips his head toward the door. Everyone is looking at him. Well, everyone but Tony; he's staring at Peter, one hand wrapped white-knuckled around his phone, his chest moving like he can't quite remember how to breathe.

Steve nods and heads for the door. "Tony," he says and Tony starts, swallows. He makes a beeline for Steve's side, matching him step-for-step as they move out into the living room.  
  
"Okay," he says, "so you know how I said I wasn't freaking out? That? Was a lie. I am absolutely freaking the fuck out. I'm losing it, Steve. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I had it to begin with. I am going off the reservation here."  
  
Steve wants to comfort him, but Tony's the one who knows what's going on here, who can fix whatever's wrong if it can be fixed. And the fact that Tony's starting to panic makes Steve's stomach roll with dread.  
  
They all sit down in the living room, Tony excepted as he starts pacing again, waving his hands. "Okay, this is what we know," he tells them. "Around 1200 on Tuesday, Peter was bitten by a radioactive spider—some kind of Globotech experiment trying to recreate the Super Soldier Serum or the Hulk Effect. Globotech employs a bunch of half-wits though, so their brilliant plan is to irradiate a spider. I don't even fucking know. Anyway, these morons were apparently transporting the stupid thing through publicly accessible areas, dropped it or something equally appalling and then _just left it_ .

 

“But I'm getting off-topic. So anyway, Peter's bitten by the world's most idiotic experiment, goes about his day, and six hours later, he's telling Steve 'n me about the trip. Naturally I flip out, drag him down to the lab, and Bruce and I test him within an inch of his life." He shakes his head, his mouth turning down in an exaggerated frown as he cuts his hand through the air. "Nothin'. Not a damn thing. No radiation, no elevated white blood cell count. He's healthy as can be. There's a trace amount of spider venom, but we're talking, like, barely-even-registered-when-we-tested-for-it trace. So we send him to bed and everything's fine, right?

 

“No. Wrong. Just—fucking—so completely wrong. Peter doesn't wake up until we go in and _make him_. He's got a little bit of a fever so we say, 'Okay, he caught a bug, fine.' He does his homework, goes to bed, and fucking _two hours later,_ he's puking his guts up. That's fine. He's sick. We can deal with puking. It's happened before, it'll happen again, whatever. Bruce comes to check on him, does an exam and then scampers off to test him for the flu. But it's not the flu, no, of course it isn't. Because fucking _Globotech_ and their irresponsible fucking _employees._ ” Tony growls and scrubs his hands over his face, presses his thumb and fingers into the corners of his eyes. “It's impossible. _Literally_ impossible, but there's ten percent _more_ of the toxin in his blood, not to mention the fact that his negligible radiation levels are _up._ That's right, it's defying the laws of physics and going _up._ I ask you, _what the actual fuck_. And now, now, on top of all of that, this fucking rash!”

 

Steve can feel his shoulders hunching the way they do when he's feeling especially uncertain. “Is Peter going to...” He flounders for a minute, groping for the right words and trying desperately not to think one specific word in particular. Just knowing it's  _there_ makes his gut curl with shame.

 

Bruce takes pity on him eventually and says, “No, no. Um.” He adjusts his glasses and shifts, then slides the tips of his fingers under the frames to rub at his eyes. “Well, I'm reasonably sure he won't end up like...like me. Not that that's particularly reassuring at this point since I would have told you eight hours ago that it was impossible for residual radiation to go up, but this isn't how it was—it's not what it was like for me. So I don't think that's what's happening here.”

 

A wave of guilt washes through Steve as the knot in his stomach unfurls just a little bit.

 

“That's good though, right?” Clint says. “Couldn't he just be sick? Flushing his system or whatever?”

 

Bruce tips his head to the side in consideration. “It's possible. Really, anything is possible at this point. Residual radiation doesn't increase. It just  _doesn't_ . I don't even know what to do with that information.” He sighs. “The problem with this kind of experimentation is that you don't really know what's going to happen until it happens. There are too many variables.”

 

“Like the fact that he's half super-soldier,” Tony puts in. “Every single one of their test subjects died within minutes. I'd bet the suit the only thing that kept Peter alive was your DNA, Steve.”

 

That thought should be comforting, but it isn't. It somehow makes Steve feel even sicker.

 

“But he _is_ alive,” Clint says. “So that's good right?”

 

Bruce twists his hands. “I don't know. I really wish I could say, but I just don't know. I mean, obviously it's good right now, but...”

 

“God,” Tony says, “This is the fucking shittiest thing _._ ”

 

“What can we do?” Natasha asks. “Do you want Clint and I to go into Globotech? Get another specimen? Files?”

 

“No, no,” Tony mutters, “I've got an RSS feed that updates along with their servers. I know what they know. And a specimen wouldn't do us any good even if they had one.”

 

Everyone is letting the uncomfortable, unfamiliar reality of being absolutely helpless sink in when Thor's voice suddenly rises, alarmed, followed by the  _pop-crash_ of a glass hitting the floor in the bedroom. Everyone moves at once, like this is a drill they've been practicing for.

 

Steve makes it to the door first, but only because his reflexes are super-soldier fast—Tony's right on his heels, the other three bearing down on top of him.

 

The first thing Steve sees when he bursts into the room is Thor's face, blown wide with panic. “I did nothing!” he yells and backs away from the bed looking horror-struck. That's when Steve's eyes fall on Peter and his stomach rips itself out through his bellybutton.

 

Peter's eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, his right hand hanging limp down the side of the bed and his left making small grasping gestures at his stomach. His head is hanging at a slight angle, moving in a triangular shape like he's half-asleep and trying to keep himself awake. But he's not. He's not—there. He's not  _ Peter,  _ and the fear prickles on Steve's skin like a living thing, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. His knees turn to jelly.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says and Steve's never heard his voice, thin and wavering, like that before.

“Calm down,” Bruce orders, moving forward to sit on the bed. “He's fine. It's just a seizure.” He looks directly at Peter and says, “You're probably scared, Peter, but it's okay. You're okay.”

“ _ Just a seizure _ ,” Tony repeats, sounding strangled.

“He was  _ well _ ,” Thor insists, “We were talking of Gwen Stacy and—the glass slipped from his fingers—he would not  _ respond—” _

“ Thor, it's okay,” Bruce says, twisting to look at him. He's not touching Peter, not doing anything to fix this—this  _ seizure—why isn't he doing anything? _ “You didn't do anything wrong. This isn't your fault.”

Thor nods, but his throat works up and down, his distress evident.

“ _ Do something, Banner _ ,” Steve hears himself demand, and geez, what's wrong with him he hasn't called Bruce by his surname in  _ years. _

Bruce's gaze turns to him, still maddeningly patient. “There's nothing  _ to _ do, Steve. Peter's okay. I know it's pretty scary to see, but he's not thrashing so he's not a danger to himself. He'll come out of it.”

“Okay, that's it,” Tony says, “after this we're taking him down to the medbay. We need to be able to hook him up and see what's going on if we have any chance of dealing with it.”

“I think that would be best,” Bruce agrees.

Then Peter's grasping left hand goes limp, his head dipping forward like he's falling asleep. Bruce turns and catches him, keeps him from slumping forward with a hand cupped around the side of his neck. “Peter?” he says gently. “Can you squeeze my fingers?” Peter must do it because Bruce smiles and says, “Good, good. You're probably a little overwhelmed right now, so I'm not going to ask you any questions. What you just experienced was a partial seizure. It's not a good sign combined with your other symptoms, but the seizure itself isn't going to hurt you. It won't affect your brain and it's not a sign of brain damage either, so don't worry about that, all right?”

“What's happening to me?” Peter asks in a small voice and Steve presses a hand down over his mouth.

“I don't know, Peter,” Bruce tells him honestly. “Your dad and I are doing our best to figure it out though.”

~

 

Tony's heart is beating like it can't quite remember what a steady rhythm is, but it can figure it out if it tries hard enough. It's something that he should probably be more concerned about, except Peter's just had a seizure and, god, why is this happening to his son,  _ why? _ He's been protecting Peter from shit like this for years, working his ass off to keep him out of the line of fire of the absolute insanity that is the superhero business and it's a field trip to  _ Globotech  _ of all places that he should have been worried about? It just isn't  _ fair _ .

  
Tony swallows hard as Steve leans down next to the bed to gather Peter up in his arms, a sharp stabbing sensation going through him right behind the arc reactor when Peter wraps his arms around Steve's neck, his ankles hooking around the back of Steve's thighs the way he used to when he was still young enough to be getting carried around. It makes him look excruciatingly vulnerable.

Steve adjusts his grip, because Peter's a lot bigger than he used to be and then presses his nose into the skin behind Peter's ear, breathing deep and Tony's heart staggers hard. “You okay, buddy?” Steve asks, quiet, and Peter nods once, his head resting heavily on Steve's shoulder.

“Tired,” he mumbles.

“Let's go get him settled,” Tony says and clears his throat when his voice breaks a little at the end.

Thor, Clint, and Natasha accompany them down to the medbay and Tony's torn between gratitude and irritation. It's not like they can do anything, but they are pretty much Peter's aunt and uncles so it's not like they're sticking around out of obligation or something. They're worried, too and it would be a pretty dickish thing to do, trying to kick them out.

Tony follows close behind Steve, the fingers of his right hand hooked into the waistband of Steve's pants so he can keep his eyes on Peter without having to pay attention to where he's going. Peter blinks blearily at him a few times and then smiles and Tony loses the ability to breathe.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says when the short in his brain repairs itself. Even sick as a dog, his kid's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Peter mumbles something in return, too quiet and too mangled to understand, his eyes drooping shut. Tony never got the watching people sleep thing, not until Peter. Now he gets it, hell, he watches Peter sleep at least once a week, sometimes when he can't sleep himself, sometimes after a mission, sometimes just because he can. It never fails to fill him with all of these emotions, things he has no fucking idea what to do with, but it's  _ good _ in a way, cathartic, and he just goes and watches Peter, lets it all wash over him.

Peter barely reacts when Steve eases him into the bed, brushing his hair back and pulling the covers up. He twitches a little when Bruce slides an IV into his hand, but he doesn't react at all to the electrode cap being eased onto his head, or the EKG electrodes stuck to his chest and Tony would be freaking out except he's very clearly fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly.

“The seizure on top of the fatigue he was already experiencing will have wiped him out,” Bruce says. “He'll probably sleep for quite awhile.”

“Good,” Tony replies, “We have a lot of work to do.”

~

 

Bruce rolled the fine focus knob ever so slightly, bringing the contents of the slide into sharper relief. Tony had a very nice electron microscope, one that every university Bruce knew of would pay dearly to possess, but for some things he preferred a slightly more traditional approach.

Besides, at the moment the EM was processing a whole batch of samples under JARVIS' direction, so it wasn't available.

His lips moved as he counted each type of cell, his head lifting at the end of each cycle to look at the paper where he was taking notes. Or, well, the StarkPad. Close enough. It even had lines on it and Tony had designed a stylus that looked like a ballpoint pen just for him.

And, probably, because it amused him to see other people steal the pen and try to write on regular paper.

Bruce had learned which battles to fight and which ones to let go and it actually was pretty amusing anyway.

He could have written his notes without looking away, but his eyes needed the break from the harsh light of the scope and it gave him a chance to glance at Tony.

It wasn't a reassuring picture, but that was all the more reason to keep doing it. There would come a point—probably in the not too distant future—when Tony was doing himself more harm than Peter good and would have to be banished from the lab. Bruce didn't expect that to be easy, but it would be necessary all the same.

Already the chatter that normally ran as soundtrack to their working together in the lab—a lab, any lab—had ground to a halt. Tony was, for his standard values of activity, unnaturally still.

Bruce extended his break and looked over his shoulder to follow Tony's gaze, seeing it was stuck on Peter in the clear-walled observation room at one end of the lab. It could be locked down with negative pressure to make it a quarantine, but things weren't quite that dire, yet.

Thank God, because Bruce did not relish the idea of having to talk Tony into a hazmat suit just to get close to his son.

The bitchfit that would follow about how it was un-fucking-fair that he had to when Steve didn't and how it his choice anyway if he wanted to expose himself to whatever Peter was giving off, that they shared half the same DNA anyway so how bad could it be? might be enough for Bruce to have to excuse himself to keep from setting them back weeks while the lab was repaired and data recollected.

When Tony started wilfully ignoring scientific principles in favor of doing whatever the hell he wanted, the situation had truly reached critical mass.

Bruce was hoping to avoid that.

The sooner they knew what was going on and therefore the sooner they could stop and/or fix it, the easier that would be to avoid.

That in mind, Bruce wrote down his numbers and went back for another look.

Tony was moving again by the time he'd finished with the slide, had been for a few minutes, though mostly in long pacing steps toward and back across the space between them and the door to the observation room.

At some point he'd picked up a pair of tongs and was tapping out a rhythm on his twitching fingers.

He'd stop at one of the displays they had running, shuffle about the graphs and charts and resize them up and down, lips moving but rarely speaking aloud, make an expression or two of anger, worry, frustration, or all three, glance back at Peter, and begin pacing and tapping again.

Years of practice were all that kept Bruce from kicking him out so he could work in peace. Well, that and the understanding that Tony needed to be doing something—or at least feeling like he was—or he would explode, if not himself, something else.

"Next slide," Bruce said and held out his hand, the sample he was done with held upright between his third and fourth fingers, the second waiting to pinch the new slide against the third. Dummy obligingly swung it into place, then took the old sample away. They were quite practiced at the exchange now, so Bruce could watch Tony the whole time.

Tony must have felt his stare because he turned and flashed a grin, the quick, automatic kind he usually reserves for media, elected officials, and Fury—when he wants to be especially annoying.

"So what do are we looking at so far?" he says, plopping down on a stool, giving it a spin to adjust the height, and then... sighing, his shoulders dropping as he wipes a hand over his face.

He's been up for nearly thirty-six hours by Bruce's count and every second of that is written in his posture and his face. He scoots the stool across the floor, but without his usual verve, instead making it look like he can't find the energy to stand upright anymore and walk. How he's been managing to this point is something of a mystery to Bruce.

Not a surprise, he's seen it and worse before, but still a mystery.

He stops at Bruce's side, crooks an elbow and uses it as a prop for his head, but, again, without the usual playfulness. His eyes are hooded, his mouth a grim line.

He would have looked better if he was the one in the quarantine room and he had neither Peter's youth nor his enhanced DNA.

Bruce took a moment to smile and clasp Tony's shoulder. "Peter's in the best possible hands there are. We'll fix this," he said.

Tony tried to smile back, but didn't quite make it, his lips doing a weird sort of twitch instead.

He gave up quickly, dropping his head onto folded arms and inhaling and exhaling deeply three times.

Then he lifted his head again until he could rest his chin on his forearms and nodded at the microscope with a quick jerk. "What've we got?"

Bruce brought a hand up to scratch at his head, the other tapping his notes and drawing the command to have them assimilated into the rest of the data. When the confirmation was flashed, he sent it to the big screen in front of them and minimized the others that had been there.

Tony's bloodshot eyes scanned the information, taking it in and, Bruce was hoping, seeing something other than what he was.

Tony's brows furrowed, though, and he said, "Wait, what?"

Damn.

Tony looked at him and Bruce realized he'd said that aloud. Oops.

"So it's not just me?" Tony said. "This isn't really my area of expertise—" And Bruce couldn't resist the snort, because 'not my area of expertise' with Tony was more along the lines of 'I've read more about it than most people employed in the field and might as well have a degree, but I just haven't taken the time to actually get the paper diploma'. "—but shouldn't the white cell counts be going  _ down? _ "

He glanced at Bruce again and sat up. "I mean, with the radiation and all..." His words trailed off and then he started gesturing to manipulate the displays and take it all in. Bruce wished him more success than he'd had, but wasn't counting on it.

"Well, in typical cases of radiation exposure and poisoning, yes, that would be the case."

Tony flinched at the words "radiation exposure and poisoning" but that was, technically, what they were looking at.

Except it wasn't going the way it should.

That was both good and bad news.

"Well this was definitely not a typical case," Tony muttered. "Fucking Globotech." His voice went up in volume as he continued, his hands moving faster and faster as he built up steam. "Why spiders anyway? Who the hell needs radioactive spiders? Even if this was their end goal, to spread some kind of radioactive venom that increased in the human body, why the hell would you choose spiders? No one voluntarily sits there and lets a spider bite them. Dogs or cats would be much more effective. People will let them do all kinds of shit that would grant exposure. Spiders though, people just kill. Or ignore. But even when they kill it's not by touching them directly, it's with a ten foot pole or a vacuum cleaner or spray. No chance of exposure. Fucking  _ idiots," _ he snarled and stabbed at the screen's off button, blanking it with a vengeance.

His head dropped down again, caught by his upraised hands, the fingers tunneling into his already messy hair. He stared at the tabletop, eyes moving back and forth like he was reading something in the surface there.

This was one of the rare times Bruce wished Tony weren't so goddamned brilliant.

And that he, Bruce, believed in lying to the family of a patient.

It would be nice to say he had some ideas of what was going on and that Tony and Steve shouldn't worry, that Peter was going through a rough patch and that it might get worse before it got better, but that it  _ would  _ get better.

He could actually do that with Steve, whose brain had been enhanced by the serum, true, but who hadn't studied medicine like Bruce and Tony. Besides, Steve still liked to believe that people were being honest, especially people he knew he could trust, and so he'd take that as gospel and nod and relax a little bit because everything was under control.

Tony, though, there was no way to bullshit Tony short of locking him out of this lab and feeding him false information in another one.

Even then, he'd still probably figure it out and hack into the system and force JARVIS to give him the real data and then he'd stop trusting Bruce and things would get  _ really _ bad, because you could do a lot of things that Tony would forgive, but lying and manipulation were not among them.

No, a worried Tony working in cooperation was much better than a worried and bitter Tony working in opposition.

Tony shifted the weight of his head to one hand, the fingers of the other digging into his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed, heavily, and said, "Okay, so white blood cells going up, toxins and radiation going up..." He frowned and lifted his head, pressing his fist into his mouth and drumming his fingers on his skull. "He's fighting it, or, well, trying to," he said, blinking and tilting his head to the side further.

Bruce hated to be the voice of reason, but someone had to be. "Fighting what?" he asked. "The radiation? The venom? Both? And how? And, even if he is fighting it, why is it going  _ up?" _

That was the biggest conundrum. Trying to fight off the foreign substances in his body was perfectly normal. Succeeding as the raised white cell count implied, was unusual, but Peter's DNA wasn't exactly normal to begin with.

But how the  _ hell _ was the concentration of toxin and level of radiation increasing?

"Virus."

Tony blinked again and sat up straight, turning to look at Bruce.  _ "Virus," _ he repeated.

"Uhhh, nooo? It's not a virus, Tony. First of all, that makes even less sense, and second of all, there's nothing like that in his blood."

Bruce would know, having spent hours looking at it under all levels and types of magnification.

"Nonono, not, like—" Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Not like an  _ actual _ virus, I'm not saying that. But the behavior is viral in nature."

Bruce frowned.

"It's... It's using Peter's body to replicate, or, well, manufacture, the point is the same. The extra toxins and radioactive particles aren't coming in from an outside source and they're sure as hell not already there just waiting to be activated, so something must be producing them."

"Like a virus," Bruce said. And it was still crazy, because biology didn't work that way, but, well, Bruce had seen whole encyclopedias worth of things biology didn't do come to horrifying life since his own experience turning science on its ear.

Tony's expression was as animated as Bruce had seen it in days—in a good way, not in a destructive way—and there was actually something like hope in his eyes.

Small, a spark more than an actual flicker, but there all the same.

Bruce wasn't about to let it die now.

"Okay," he said, shifting on his stool to wake his ass up from the numbness that had settled in some time ago. "Like a virus. Using Peter's own cells to somehow produce the venom and make it radioactive." He inhaled, held it, and blew the breath out slowly.

"I don't know if you can keep calling them idiots," he said almost absently as he started making notes on his Pad.

Tony frowned and jerked back at that. "What? Why the hell not?"

Bruce gestured with his stylus. "They may very well have birthed an entirely new branch of science here, Tony. They're irresponsible in how they're using it, but this is not the fruit of idiocy."

Tony's lip curled and his eyes narrowed and he almost snarled, but he finally conceded, "Okay, fine." He looked over and said, with complete seriousness, "What about fucktards? Can I call them fucktards?"

Bruce had to swallow the snort. "That's not very politically correct—"

"Flopping dickweasels it is." His attention shifted back to the screens and he squinted at one, flipping through until it came up.

"JARVIS, did we run any DNA tests?" Tony asked.

Bruce's eyes snapped up to Tony's face at that request.

"We have not, sir," JARVIS said, sounding as wary as Bruce felt.

"Do that."

His eyes came down to meet Bruce's. "Let me know as soon as it's done."

"Of course, sir," JARVIS said.

Tony's gaze dropped to the tabletop where his fingers were drumming and then rose to look at the observation room where Peter slept on.

"I need coffee," he said. "Do you want coffee? Tea? Anything?"

Bruce grabbed his mug and handed it over. "I could use a refill, yeah. Green, please. Nothing added."

Tony nodded and vanished, not quite moving fast enough to be termed a run, but definitely not a leisurely stroll either.

Bruce watched him go, then rubbed at his eyes and turned back to his Pad.

~

 

Peter sleeps, still and silent as the dead, and Steve is grateful for the machine tracking the beat of his heart, tracing it on the monitor beside his bed. There's a glass wall between them and the lab where Bruce and Tony are working—this room can be sealed if necessary and Steve can't bring himself to think about why Tony chose it.

Steve manages to sit watching Peter for nearly an hour before he numbs to the environment and succumbs to boredom. Watching Tony isn't much better, even though he's more active, alternating between sitting stiffly and stabbing at screens with his fingers and twitching around amidst the tables, checking pieces of equipment, flipping through slides, and looming over Bruce's shoulder before starting the cycle over. Steve feels pretty useless, like he did during the war when he was touring with the girls instead of out fighting with the rest. He isn't okay with sitting on the sidelines.

Somehow the time still slips away and Steve has no idea how long he's been sitting there until JARVIS announces in a murmur, “It is nine AM Mister Rogers.”

Steve blinks and rubs a hand over his face. “Really? Geez. Uh. Okay, thanks.” He sits for a second longer, feeling how his body isn't tired, but his mind is exhausted, and how, now that he knows what time it is, the hunger claws at his stomach. He needs to eat. Tony had barely picked at what he'd made the night before, so he  _ definitely _ needs something. Steve glances through the glass wall and sees Tony staring intently down at a StarkPad. He's got a pen in his hand that he's whipping back and forth so fast it's practically a blur, but now that Steve's looking, he can see the effort he's putting into that mindless gesture. Breakfast then.

He glances at Peter, still out like a light. The rash has spread so it can be seen on every inch of Peter's exposed skin, but otherwise things haven't changed. He hasn't had another seizure, much to Steve's intense relief.

He stands and stretches stiff muscles and then leans over Peter, brushing back limp, greasy hair from his forehead to press a kiss there. “I love you, Peter,” he says quietly.

Bruce looks up when he slips into the lab, but Tony's working furiously with a StarkPad and doesn't so much as falter at his entrance.

Steve is putting his hand over Tony's to get his attention when Thor comes through the door carrying two enormous serving trays, each piled high with food. Heaps of eggs, piles of bacon and sausage, towers of toast and pancakes, plus an entire stick of butter and several jars of syrup and jelly. Jane peeks out from behind him, smiling tentatively and carrying a column of plates with a jug of coffee balanced on top and a bag of cutlery hooked around her wrist. "Hey," she says breathlessly. "You guys hungry?"  
  
"Does this look like a cafeteria?" Tony demands and Steve prods him pointedly in the shoulder.  
  
"My heroes," Bruce says and abandons his microscope, breathing in deeply. "I'm starved. Is that coffee Colombian?"  
  
"Costa Rican," Thor says. "It is a powerful brew."  
  
"Excellent," Bruce murmurs and helps divest Jane of her load, smiling pleasantly despite his obvious weariness. "How are you?" he asks and Steve looks to Thor.  
  
"Thank you," he says. "We really needed this."  
  
Thor smiles and claps his shoulder. "I would choose to be nowhere else."  
  
He sets the trays down and Tony huffs at Steve. "This is a lab. Eating in here is a terrible idea."  
  
"And yet you do it all the time," Bruce calls over, before going right back into his conversation with Jane.  
  
"You haven't eaten for almost thirty-six hours, Tony," Steve tells him and Tony looks mildly surprised to hear that.  
  
"Thirty-six, really?"  
  
"JARVIS?"  
  
"Mister Rogers is correct, sir," JARVIS says. "You have been working very diligently and I suspect you would have succumbed to dehydration if not for Doctor Banner continually supplying you with coffee, sir."  
  
"Fine, fine, I'll eat something," Tony grumbles, but before he can get up, Steve's blocking his way off of his stool and catching his lips in a kiss. "Mmm," Tony hums, finally something other than irritable and when Steve tries to pull back, he catches him by the hips and drags him forward again. "No, c'mere," he mutters into Steve's mouth. "This's way better than breakfast."  
  
"Better if you didn't taste like stale coffee," Steve murmurs in reply and smirks.  
  
Tony kisses him quiet, then till heat is creeping up the back of his skull before telling him between light pecks, "You don't taste too sweet either, Princess."  
  
That's when someone clears their throat.  
  
A flush races up the back of Steve's neck and Clint drawls, "Do I get a good morning kiss, too, Princess?"  
  
"Pucker up, buttercup," Tony retorts, waggling a beckoning finger.

And because neither Tony nor Clint is about to back down, Clint swaggers over and Tony grabs him and throws him into a dip and then plants one right on him. Tony's heaving him to his feet again, Clint saying entirely too casually, “Steve's right, you taste like shit,” when Darcy comes through the door.

“He didn't say I taste like shit, he said I taste like stale coffee,” Tony says primly. “Big difference. Unless you're getting your coffee at Starbucks, I guess, then, yeah, it's probably both.”

Darcy stops in her tracks, throws up her hands and says, “ _ Whoa. _ Hang on a second, did Clint finally talk you guys into the foursome?”

“Some of us are trying to eat,” Bruce points out.

“Why did I marry you again?” Steve asks of the room at large, sighing.

“Because I'm the bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. The—”

“Most obnoxious man on earth,” Natasha cuts in, rolling her eyes. “I don't know how any of us tolerate you. Let alone Steve, having to put up with you  _ constantly _ .”

“I was serious about the foursome,” Darcy says through a mouthful of pancake, and there's whipped cream daubed at the corner of her mouth. Steve can't remember seeing a can, but there it is.

Clint rolls his eyes and Steve has to smother a smile because he looks just like Natasha when he does that. “Tony and Steve don't want to have a foursome, Darce.”

Tony shrugs. “I'm down,” he says and starts shoveling chunks of everything onto a plate.

“ _ No,”  _ Steve says firmly. “It's very flattering, but no.”

Darcy squints at him. “You don't have to participate. If you wanna watch—”

Steve feels himself go tomato red and the grin (plus the crow of delight) Darcy lets free convinces him she's just messing with him. Especially when Clint grins lazily at him, too, and says, “Okay, okay, cut him some slack.”

“I can't help it!” Darcy howls. “His face! It's priceless! How sweet is he? Oh, my god, I'm dying.” She says, flapping her hand at her face. She's so amused she's got tears in her eyes.

And for a little while, the fear takes a backseat.

Tony sits close to him, eating like he may never get the chance again, his thigh warm against Steve's. At one point Clint and Thor are telling the girls a largely exaggerated story when Tony leans into his side and murmurs just below his ear, “I love you, you know.”

Steve feels the warmth of the words all the way to his toes, but he shrugs and turns his head to whisper back, “I know.”

Tony's eyes jump up to his face in surprise. “You're not going to say it back?”

Steve pretends to think about it.

“Oh, what an asshole,” Tony says and Steve laughs. He presses a kiss to Tony's mouth and doesn't pull back until his hands have gone slack, the scant contents of his plate sliding to the floor. “Yeah, Tony,” he says. “I love you.”

~

Peter sleeps and sleeps, and then sleeps some more. The radiation levels creep a little higher, along with the venom levels, but Peter's temperature stays stable and he doesn't have anymore seizures so both Tony and Steve submit to a few hours sleep, everyone's high emotions leveling out in the light of day. "It's entirely possible the seizure was fever-related," Bruce tells them, looking positive. "It is concerning that Peter's radiation levels are rising and the venom is as well, but all his other symptoms can be explained by a bad case of the flu. We may have reacted too hastily."  
  
"The rash?" Tony says and Bruce shrugs.  
  
"Also, due to his fever perhaps? A heat rash? It's not distinctive so there are a lot of possible causes."  
  
So by the time Peter wakes up early Thursday morning, Tony and Steve have mellowed considerably.  
  
"Hey, there, bud!" Tony says cheerfully, hitching a hip up on the bed and ruffling Peter's hair.

~

 

Eventually the activity in Peter's muscles eases and Bruce stops administering the sedatives, saying, “This is good. This might be a sign that things are making a turn for the better, but I'd like to be able to determine his level of coherency.”

Tony and Steve both come to wait for him to wake.

Steve sits and watches his face, straight-backed and perfectly still while Tony paces in a U around the bed, slapping one palm with a long, thin screwdriver, hard enough that he's raising weals across his palm.

When Peter's eyes ease open, Tony freezes and Steve leans forward, his stoic expression melting into one of concern. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Hey,” Tony says, voice hushed. “Peter?”

Peter blinks at him lethargically, hazy-eyed and Tony's grip on the screwdriver tightens, his eyes darting over to Bruce, but Bruce just shakes his head, silently tells him to be patient. Those sedatives had been nothing to sneeze at, Peter's going to be groggy for awhile. Tony eases down onto the very edge of one of the chairs closest to the bed like he thinks it's going to grab hold of him and pin him down. Peter's eyes track his progress, which is good, and Tony seems to realize as much because he looks encouraged.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs. “Hey. It's Dad.”

Peter's eyes droop closed; Tony wilts a little when they remain that way, the minutes dragging by.

“That's fine,” Bruce tells them in a whisper. “It's the sedatives. It will take a little while for his system to flush them out all the way.”

Steve leans back from the bed. He looks utterly spent. Bruce is exhausted himself, frayed at the edges, but it's not his child in the hospital bed and as hard as it's been for him, seeing Peter like this, being angry with himself because he should be able to tell them more, to do more, it's still not his baby that's so ill.

Tony puts his head in his hands. “I'm sorry,” he croaks, eventually.

Steve shakes himself and a frown creeps across his face. “Sorry? What are you sorry for, Tony?”

“This shouldn't be happening!” Tony says with a sharp wave of his hand. “He shouldn't be like this!”

  
  


Tony spins on his heel, holding one finger up and Steve knows he's about to get an ear-full. It still never fails to amaze him how much attitude Tony can pack in to the simplest gestures. “No. No, absolutely not, it ain't happening. And furthermore,  _ fuck no,”  _ Tony says, his eyes fever-bright, his lip wobbling slightly.

 

Steve sighs. Normally he'd bristle at Tony's entitled, dramatic BS, but he's exhausted. He's  _ worn out _ and heart sick and Tony's childish tantrums are too much to deal with, even if he understands why Tony's acting like this. Steve considers fighting him for a brief moment and decides what little energy he has is better spent. “Fine,” he says. “Whatever. Do whatever you want.”

Tony's jaw is already firmed with a snippy retort, but that makes him falter. His jaw goes loose, his indignantly pointed finger sinking. “Um,” he says, now uncertain. He rubs the pads of his fingers together and shifts his weight. “...really? That's it?”

Steve shrugs; it's a half-hearted gesture. “I'm not going to make you do anything, Tony.”

Tony snorts. “Since when?”

That's fair, but Steve just tells him, “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Tony says and Steve hears him start forward. “Hang on.”

“What, Tony?” Steve asks wearily, pressing his thumb and his index finger into the corners of his eyes. The sound of his footsteps stop and Steve can feel him hesitate before he feels Tony's fingers curling around the inside of his elbow.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Steve. I'm sorry.”

Steve presses harder, a sharp, hot burning starting at the backs of his eyes. He presses until it hurts and he just wants Tony to shut up, he has somewhere he has to  _ be. _ He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to get out and do something. Why can't Tony just  _ shut up? _

But he doesn't; Tony never does. “I know I've been kind of a jerk the last few days and I shouldn't be taking it out on you, but Steve—”

A breath catches slightly on its way out of Steve's chest despite his best efforts and Tony goes very still behind him.

“...Steve?”

“I'm fine,” he replies tersely and pulls his hand away from his eyes. “I have to go,” he repeats and ignores the way it feels like he's swallowed broken glass.

“Like hell you are,” Tony says and grips his arm harder, tugging insistently. “This is fucking with you as much as it is me.”

“ _ Tony _ ,” Steve says and he can't stop how sharp it sounds. “If you don't want to go that's fine, but I need to.”

“Then go!” Tony tells him. “You and I both know I can't stop you! If you have to go, then go!”

 

But Steve doesn't. His chest is rising and falling visibly with every breath and there are people waiting on him,  _ counting _ on him, but he lets Tony pull him back around this time when he tugs. Tony's hands move up his shoulders to his neck, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Steve's neck and Steve takes one sharp, faltering breath, letting his head drop onto Tony's shoulder. His arms move around Tony, holding on and Tony's hands tighten around the back of his neck in response. The heat of his palms makes something sharp and hard inside Steve melt away. It hits him that this is the first time he's laid so much as a finger on Tony in days, the most he's said to him in as long and the loneliness he's been struggling to shake off suddenly makes sense. He breathes in Tony's familiar scent—metal and grease and something else he's never been able to place—and presses his face into Tony's neck, feels his pulse against the bridge of his nose, the heat of his skin on his cheeks.

Tony makes a little breathless noise in Steve's ear and he realizes he's holding on too hard. “Sorry,” he mutters and eases up a little. Tony lets out an amused sound, turning his head so he can rest his forehead on Steve's shoulder, the roughness of his cheek against Steve's jaw.

“Missed you, too,” he murmurs and a lump catches in Steve's throat as Tony's lips press against the sensitive skin at the base of his ear. “Sorry I've been so—”

“No,” Steve says. “Not for this. Not for Peter.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony says, “but I could have taken a break. I mean, come on, I haven't so much as ogled your ass in three days.  _ Three days,  _ Steve.”

Steve breathes out a laugh and runs his hand down Tony's back, surprised by how much comfort the feel of the familiar muscles against his palm alone provides. “Actually fessing up to working too hard? Now I've seen everything.”

“Ha ha,” Tony mutters, his breath sinking through Steve's shirt, warm and damp against his skin.

Steve tucks his nose under the line of Tony's jaw and says quietly, “I know you're doing everything you can. I'm just, I'm scared, Tony. What if you can't—” His voice catches in his throat and he feels Tony swallow hard, his fingers tightening.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Yeah, I've uh,” he clears his throat. “I've been thinking about that a lot. I don't think I could— If—“ He breathes out sharply into Steve's shoulder and shakes his head. “Fuck, Steve, I've never been so scared in my life. If he— Fuck.  _ Fuck.” _

 

Yeah. Steve knows.

~

 

The room doesn't have to be dark at night. Peter's in a fucking coma, it's not like it's going to  _ wake him up _ . Besides, it's unusual for someone  _ not _ to be in the lab—Tony's noticed they tend to slip out as soon as he or Steve show up—but Bruce has been turning the lights off at night anyway.

There's a big red line of tape arcing across the floor from about a foot away from the left wall to about the same on the right. There's a Geiger counter sitting another foot outside that line, which is there because not only is Peter's body breaking down, not only is he in a coma, he's also so fucking radioactive now that that's as far as Tony's allowed to go.

His son is dying and Tony can't even enter the room unless he wants to risk adding to this tragedy.

The Geiger counter is quiet and Tony steps up to the line, pokes at it with his toes. It would be easy. It would be  _ painful _ , but Tony's been there, done that. He can deal with the physical pain. But this blade in his chest he can't shake, the way it  _ burns _ when he thinks about not having Peter anymore... There aren't words.

He scuffs the tape with his toe and then sniffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, draws back. He finally brings himself to look into the room when he turns around again and freezes because Steve's leaning over Peter, kissing his forehead. It feels like he's been socked in the gut.

It had never occurred to him that Steve would be resistant to the radiation. But of course, that makes sense. What's more startling is the seething jealousy boiling up inside Tony. He doesn't even realize how bad it is until Steve glances up and sees him, his face showing surprise and then dread. He crosses to the door and steps out breathing, “Tony, what is it?”

Tony sees the panic and the part of him that gives a damn is ruthlessly smothered by the part of him that wants to scream and destroy something, anything.

“ _ Tony,”  _ Steve says and Tony crosses his arms, hunches his shoulders.

“I'm not here with news,” he snaps. “Calm down.”

Steve takes an obviously shaky breath and looks at Tony his brow creasing in admonishment. “You scared the daylights out of me, Tony.”

“Seeing as 'daylights' aren't something people contain, I don't see how that's possible.”

The crease turns to confusion. “What...? Tony—”

Tony ignores him, glancing down at the floor and the red line Steve's still standing inside. He sniffs, swiping a knuckle under his nose and says, casually as he can, “Radiation doesn't stick?”

“No, it...”

Tony sees the second Steve starts to get it and anger wells up in him, but there's another emotion coming up right along with it and Tony almost chokes on the sob that claws its way out of his throat. “ _ He's my goddamn son, too!” _ he yells and oh, fuck, is he  _ crying? _

The look on Steve's face, aching and sympathetic, tells him that yes, yes he is.

“Fuck,” he snarls and swipes roughly at the tears streaking down his cheeks. “I  _ hate this _ ,” he shouts and Steve looks almost as miserable as Tony feels. “I can't even be in the same  _ room _ with him and I don't even know if this is— If he's going to— Oh, fuck.” Tony's legs go weak and he sinks down, drops to his ass on the floor. “Oh god, no,” he breathes, propping his shaking arms on his knees and propping his head up on his hands, his ring and pinky fingers covering his eyes. It does nothing to stem the flow of tears and he shudders when he feels Steve's hand on his shoulder, his hip sliding down to rest next to his. He can't breathe. His chest is heaving and he's not even coherent anymore, just bleating, “No, no, n-no, n-not like this, no, I— I— j-just f-fu- _ fuck _ . No,  _ why _ .”

“Tony, you need to breathe,” Steve says. “You have to breathe.”

Who the fuck cares if he breathes? Peter's dying. Maybe if he keeps it up like this, he'll cry himself to death because he can't deal with this. It feels like he's breaking apart. Can you suffocate to death from crying too hard? It sure as hell feels like he's dying. He hopes so.

“Tony,” Steve says and it must be the tone of his voice that gets Tony's attention because he's barely aware of anything other than the sharp heaves of his chest. He wipes his palms across his face for all the good it does and glances sideways at Steve, every breath still hitching, his nose dripping with snot.

Steve looks pale, stunned.

“I d-didn't m-m-mean it,” he mutters and presses his palms to his eyes only to feel them fill with tears. Jesus, he can't  _ stop. _

“Yes, you did.”

It's idiotic to try denying it again and Tony's too tired anyway. He glances at the sliver of Peter's face he can see from here and feels his chin, his lip tremble. He shakes his head and puts his head in his hands. “I c-couldn't. If he— I couldn't, Steve.”

“He won't,” Steve says and Tony lets out a bark of humorless laughter, throws out his hands.

“Look at him! He already fucking is!”

Steve swallows hard and shrinks back from Tony slightly, curling inward and Tony hates himself.

“Shit. I didn't—”

“He can't, Tony, all right?” Steve says, staring at his hands, clasped tight between his knees. “He can't. So we're not going to let him. Right?”

And when Steve looks at him, Tony remembers how much impossible shit he's done just because he had Steve and his quiet faith backing him up. “Right,” he says shakily. “We won't let him.”


	3. Draft III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The draft where I ambitiously tried to start breaking it up by chapters. Ahaha aha ha.

It's just after noon when Peter's phone chirrups in his backpack. Nobody else in the group of students headed toward biotechnology company OsCorp's main entrance hears it, thanks to his dad's specially-designed volume controls. Peter, however, does, thanks to the enhanced hearing he inherited from his other dad.

All of which is possible because his dads are _the_ Iron Man and Captain America.

It's a gene pool that comes with a lot of perks.

Perks aren't the only things it comes with though; most fifteen-year-olds' biggest problems involve passing trig or if so-and-so will ask them to Sadie's. Peter worries about all that stuff, too, but he also gets the privilege of wondering if _this_ will be the time Fury calls to say he's lost his dads, or one of his uncles, his aunt. There have been some close calls in the past and whenever more than a couple of them answer the command to assemble, Peter gets twitchy and a little over-sensitive to his phone's alerts. He's gotten in trouble for it in the past because _technically_ students aren't allowed to have cellphones, but his dads get it, thus, special volume controls.

“Peter, what are you doing?” Gwen hisses when he stops walking to swing his bag around so he can dig for the phone. “Ms. March is going to throw a fit if you get separated!”

Gwen's...well, Peter's pretty sure Gwen is his girlfriend. He hasn't actually  _asked_ her yet and since he's too pathetic to even ask her out yet, he hasn't kissed her either, but he thinks he's getting there. If he's reading her right, which he probably is. Maybe. Like...79% probability?

_Anyway,_ Gwen's also brilliant, so she puts together the answer to her question before he can.

“Your dads?”

“Probably,” Peter mutters, distracted. Where the heck is his phone? His stomach is crawling around in fits because he'd woken up this morning and gone into the kitchen to find just one dad. “ _Morning, Bambi_ ,” Tony'd said and handed him a plate with two Pop-Tarts and a pile of scrambled eggs. “ _Dad got a call around five this morning. Off to Cleveland!_ ” he said, mouth bent into a completely unconvincing grin.

“ _Without you?_ ” Peter said, sinking down at the table. He hated it when his dads went off to fight without each other, even when they were with his aunt or uncles. Steve was made pretty tough, but he's not invincible. He tended to put himself in riskier situations when they weren't together. Too selfless for his own good. “And he says _I'm_ the one engaging in high-risk behavior,” Tony was always complaining. “Ha! My personal motto isn't ' _lay down on the fucking wire_ '.”

Peter likes it better when they're together.

Dad shrugged and took a swig of his coffee, the fingers of his free hand grazing over the buttons on his suit jacket. “ _Yep. Day job, shorty. Don't worry, Dad's a big boy and he's got Clint and Bruce along for the ride._ ”

Peter knew his dad well enough to know he wasn't taking being left behind as well as he was pretending, but he also knew fake-it-till-you-make-it was pretty much Dad's _modus operandi_ for coping. “ _Enjoy that nickname while you can, Dad_ ,” he'd said. “ _Pretty soon you're gonna be the shorty._ ”

Dad had thrown a dish towel at Peter, but some of the brooding darkness in his eyes had faded, so Peter counted it as a win.

One of their classmates bumps into him and Peter grunts, breaking out of his thoughts. “Do you mind?” he says and is summarily ignored—as usual. He glares at the girl's retreating head until his fingers find the phone, finally.

“Come on,” Gwen says, pulling him forward. “We have to keep up. And keep that thing down so Ms. March doesn't see it.”

“That's what I have you for,” Peter says, smirking at her as he pulls the phone out and she shoots him a humorless smile, but keeps guiding him forward by the elbow, craning her neck to keep an eye out for the chaperones over the heads of their classmates.

Peter's phone lights up under his touch; it's a specially-made Stark device—fingerprint protected. His heart immediately starts pumping faster when he sees he's got four text messages. He reminds himself that if it were serious, they would have called, not texted, and taps open the first message.

**Uncle Clint 12:06 03.06.39**

_hey pete – went fine but no sparring tonight sorry._

_think i messed up my bow arm. nothin to worry_

_about tho._

**Uncle Clint 12:06 03.06.39**

_sorry forgot to say – your dad is OK. got hit but hes_

_alright_

**Aunt Nat 12:06 03.06.39**

_Everyone made it back. Your dad was wounded, but_

_he's going to be fine. Tony knows. Bruce will text_

_with details. Your uncle the moron bruised his arm,_

_but he's just being a baby._

“Peter?” Gwen says and he swallows, his heart making it difficult since it's throbbing at the base of his throat. He realizes he's stopped walking and Gwen's staring anxiously up into his face.

“Uh,” he says and glances down at the phone, at his white-knuckled fingers. “I,” he says and his voice catches. “My dad— He— I mean he's not— He's just—”

Gwen's grip on his arm turns painful and she grabs the phone, her eyes darting back and forth as she reads the message—he'd added her prints just a few days ago. Tony had complained for an hour, but Gwen _gets_ it, what the waiting and not knowing is like and she's— “Oh my god, Peter!” she cries when she's finished and releases his arm just to punch it. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“ _Ow_ ,” Peter says.

“Jeez,” she continues, hitting him with a dirty look, “I know if it's Steve that's hurt that's a big deal, but I thought— _god._ ”

“I really wish you wouldn't call him Steve,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

“That's his name, Peter,” Gwen says, like he doesn't know that, like it makes it less weird that she's on a first name basis with his _dad,_ and she pulls the phone closer to her face. “This one's from Bruce.”

Peter edges closer to her, reading over her shoulder.

**Uncle Bruce 12:07 03.06.39**

_First of all, your dad is fine, Peter. He was injured,_

_but he should be fully recovered by the end of next_

_week. The wound looks worse than it is. He's getting_

_stitches right now. There's nothing to worry about._

“Oh, stitches,” Gwen says, “that's not so bad.”

Peter agrees, but he'll still feel better when he can see for himself. Then he remembers he has one more text.

**dad 12:07 03.06.39**

_Dad's back. Everybody already told you I'm sure,_

_but he's banged up. Send you a pic when I get there._

That makes Peter smile; that's exactly what he needs and Dad knows it.

“Okay, come on,” Gwen says, tugging on his arm, “we need to get moving. We are lagging so bad. You know how crazy Marsh gets when you don't stay with the group.”

The two of them run to catch up with the rest of the class, hand in hand.

~

 

Tony has exactly one hour before he has to be back at work for the remainder of his day of incredibly boring meetings—a gift from Pepper. Who had told him in no uncertain terms: “ _I gave Happy orders to_ carry _you back to the car if necessary. Natasha texted me, so you're not getting out of this with your oh-but-my-poor-husband-I'm-so-distraught-he's-so-badly-injured shtick_.”

“ _He could be emotionally compromised_ ,” Tony pointed out.

Pepper had just given him a Look and said, “ _One. Hour._ ”

So here he is in S.H.I.E.L.D. gloomy-as-hell HQ trying to get eyes on his husband. It's not like he doesn't trust Bruce and Clint's assessments of his injuries; they're the best of all of them at all of that field-medic crap, but after seventeen years of this he knows the quickest way to get rid of the knotted ball of anxiety behind the arc reactor is to see for himself.

He blows right past the guard standing at the door to the medbay and a few strands of the knot immediately start to unspool when his gaze finds Bruce's broad purple-covered shoulders. He's standing with his back to the door, but he turns at the sound of Tony's entrance. His mouth puckers in an amused little smile. “About time. Pepper said you only have until one.”

Tony huffs, part faux-exasperated and part real-exasperated. “Oh my god, she messaged you, too? I am capable of following instructions.”

“That's news to me,” comes Clint's voice and Tony gives Bruce a quick once-over before looking to the beds, his eyes sliding over Clint who has his entire right arm swaddled in bags of ice, Natasha who's sitting at the foot of his bed poking at his leg, and over to the bed at the right where Steve's lying on his back, head obscured by the bowed back of the doctor leaning over him. The red boots of his uniform are sticking off the end.

“Because you're so good at following instructions, Barton,” Tony mutters, and starts a little when a hand touches his arm.

“He's fine,” Bruce says, voice gentle and Tony wrinkles his nose.

“Well, _obviously._ ”

“It's just a flesh wound,” Bruce goes on. Tony doesn't like the sound of that, because that's Bruce-speak for _don't freak out, even though it looks bad._

He sidles around the bed, opposite the doctor, and, “ _Jesus,_ Steve, what the hell happened?” slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. He reaches blindly for Steve's hand, fingers clenching tight around it as his heart gives several stuttering, clenchy beats. It looks like someone doused Steve with blood, except for the area right around the still-bleeding gash that crosses his _entire forehead,_ holy hell. The doctor's carefully dabbing away fresh blood as it wells up, sewing the skin back together with tiny, neat stitches.

Steve doesn't open his eyes, but he squeezes Tony's fingers and says with, frankly, _way_ too much cheek, “Went on what's called a 'mission'. Tried to stop some bad guys who didn't want to be stopped.”

The doctor almost manages to disguise his laugh as a cough.

Tony points a narrow-eyed glare at the side of his head. “I told Pete I'd send him a picture,” he says instead of acknowledging his asshole husband's snark and pulls out his phone, starts trying to find a good angle.

Steve's eyes pop open and the doctor makes a chiding noise when his head makes an abortive turn toward Tony. “Tony, no, are you crazy?” he says. “It'll ruin his whole day if he sees me like this.”

Tony flicks his eyes up, mouth flat. “I thought you were fine.”

“Okay, am I going to need to ask you to leave?” the doctor asks when Steve turns his head again and gives Tony a hard look.

“I _am_ fine, but I'm covered in blood. That's not going to reassure him, which is what I assume you're trying to do.”

The most recent stitch slips loose a little and the gash widens, giving Tony a glimpse of pale bone he _really_ could have done without. He swallows with some difficulty and tugs his hand free of Steve's, pushing him back into place. “Stop _moving,_ I can see your _skull.”_

“You should have seen him earlier,” Clint says and Steve's next glare goes in his direction. Probably because he knows Tony's imagining that now, with technicolor, slo-mo, the works. It's making him a _tiny_ bit nauseous.

“Clint,” Steve says sharply, the way he does when he's telling them off in the field.

“What,” Clint says and shrugs, winces. “I'm saying it looks better. I thought he'd taken off your fa—ow, shit, Nat, what the hell.” Natasha doesn't even bother looking up at him, her face serene and unreadable.

Steve sighs and lets the doctor take his jaw and manipulate him back into place. “At least wait until the stitches are finished, Tony.”

“Yeah, fine, fine, whatever,” Tony mutters and worries his thumb over the hem at Steve's wrist. He glances up at Bruce, grasping for something to distract him. “Big Guy see any action?”

Bruce smiles ruefully. “Not this time.”

“Been awhile,” Tony says and rubs at his nose. “Do we need to go find a quarry or something where he can work off some excess energy? We can give Thor a call.”

“He's not a hyperactive five-year-old, Tony,” Bruce says, wry. “You don't need to set up regular playdates for him.”

Tony's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Yeah, that's why he and Clint sit and color while we wait for you to change back.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Hulk has never colored with anything other than people's blood, Tony.”

“Holy shit, do you think they make markers big enough?” Clint asks eagerly. “They make those giant pencils—we could get some poster-sized prints— He loves tic-tac-toe as long as I don't win too much.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, covering his face with one hand. “Now look what you've done.”

“Might be a good idea,” Steve says thoughtfully. “Drawing always helps me feel calm.”

“ _Fingerpaints!”_ Clint just about yells.

Bruce groans and Tony grins at him.

“All right,” the doctor announces, sounding relieved. He sits back and starts tugging off his gloves. “You're all set, Captain.”

“Sit up slowly,” Tony orders when Steve starts shifting to his elbows. “You may be durable, but your blood fills the same amount space as the rest of us. And since you're wearing half of it—so 2002, by the way—”

“Here,” Bruce says, cutting Tony off with a look. “Let me give you a hand.” He eases Steve upright, clasping one of his hands to his chest, the other on Steve's shoulder. “Okay?” Bruce asks, trying to peer at Steve's face, despite the way Steve's bent forward. It makes Tony's heart do weird things, like it's samba-ing in his chest or something.

“Lightheaded,” Steve says to his knees. “Can't feel my forehead at all, but the rest smarts.”

“What did I tell you,” Tony complains. Bruce shoots him a quelling look.

“I'm not surprised,” Clint says. “Don't know how you got off without a concussion.”

Steve smiles, nodding at Bruce cautiously as he brings his head up. “A small blessing.”

A very small, squishy part of Tony that he hasn't managed to stamp out goes a little softer at that. Tony may not believe in God, but he admires Steve's quiet faith, appreciates like hell the comfort his husband gets from it. “ _You hang out with a Norse god on a regular basis,”_ Tony's said in the past. “ _You've been to his palace in another dimension. Met his_ relatives. _How can you still think there's one God?”_

Steve had just looked back at him with steady eyes and a firm jaw and said, “ _It's different. And it's called faith for a reason.”_

Anyone else and Tony'd dismiss them as a self-deluded idiot, willfully ignorant. But there's something about Steve, maybe his inherent wholesomeness, maybe the fact that he's not afraid to talk about his God, but never asks anyone to _come to Jesus,_ or maybe it's just that Tony's head over heels for the guy, has been for years.

Either way, he's not about to try and take it away from him.

“Pepper's going to kill you,” Natasha says then, inspecting her fingernails.

Tony blinks. “What? Why?”

Natasha looks up, a smile cutting across her lips. “It's one.”

“ _What?”_ Tony says, looking down at his watch even though he's sure she's right. “Oh, hell.” He glances toward the door because when Pepper said she'd send Happy after him she was almost, probably, definitely _not bluffing_. “Steve—”

“At least let me clean up a little, Tony,” he says, chiding Tony for _patience_ with his tone and his expression and somehow managing to look the picture of it himself.

“Well, get to it!” Tony says, snapping his fingers. “Pep's going to have my head!”

Bruce hands over an antiseptic wipe, trying to smother a smile and doing a piss-poor job of it.

The only thing Steve's really managed to do by the time the medbay door opens is smear the blood around a little. Happy pokes his head in and Tony immediately flings both hands up, index fingers out. “I swear to god, if you try to pick me up I will punch you in the throat, so help me.”

Happy looks completely unimpressed, the son of a bitch. “I gave you an extra fifteen minutes, sir. You were supposed to be back at one sharp. Come on.”

“Just let me get this photo for my kid!” Tony says and Happy sighs, but waves his hand in a _well, go on then_ motion.

“Say cheese, Frankie,” Tony says and Steve drops his hands, giving up on the clean up, tries a smile. He looks ridiculously young and exhausted and Tony can tell there's _something_ weighing him down, but it's going to have to wait for later.

“All right,” Happy says as soon as the phone makes the simulated shutter noise and takes Tony by the elbow. “Let's go, Mr. Stark, before Miss Potts has both our asses.”

Tony lets Happy drag him toward the door, yelling as they go through, “ _You owe me a kiss, asshole!”_

~ Chapter Two ~

OsCorp is amazing. It's not that Peter doesn't appreciate how far ahead of everyone Stark Industries is, it's just—OsCorp focuses on biology. What his dad likes to call not-very-nicely “soft science”, but Peter's always been fascinated by it and OsCorp is one of the leading companies doing bio-mechanical engineering and genetic experimentation in the world. The labs are incredible and it's even better because Gwen's just as excited as he is to see everything.

They're waiting for the elevator when his phone goes off again. His hand drops to his pocket and Gwen catches the movement out of the corner of her eye. She glances up at him and then eases between him and the closest chaperone. “My hero,” he whispers to her and smiles when he sees her cheek curve in reply.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she murmurs. He hunches down to peer at the screen and pauses to nuzzle her shoulder.

“But Gwennn,” he says, making his voice extra plaintive and she throws her hand up, putting the back to her forehead.

“No, not the puppy eyes!” she cries and he has to stifle a laugh in her shoulder blade, hiding the phone in the small of her back when everybody turns to look.

“You are terrible at stealth-ops,” he whispers when he thinks most everyone has looked away.

“Not my division,” she retorts.

Peter stifles a laugh in the hood draped across her shoulders and does as he's told and pulls up the texts. They're from his dads. The first two are from Tony, the earliest a snapshot of a cowl-less Captain America with a line of black stitches that slants diagonally down from the ridge on the left side of his forehead all the way to the arch of his right eyebrow. It looks like he'd tried to clean up some of the liberal amounts of blood dried on his face, but he hadn't been very successful. He looks like a horror movie rendition of himself with blood crusted in his eyebrows, in dark rivulets down both sides of his nose, his temples. Peter wonders if his dad's skull wasn't stronger than an ordinary man's, if whatever had done that could have—okay, stop. Stop. No. He deletes the photo and his dad's other text comes up:

**dad 13:04 03.06.39**

_Looks nasty, but no concussion. He loves it when I_

_call him Frankie._

Peter snorts. The next message is from his other dad, but he has to wait until he and Gwen are stuffed into the back corner of the elevator to read it because Mr. Sibbel, one of OsCorp's two assigned escorts for their class keeps sidling up beside them. Peter wouldn't be surprised if he was specifically hired by his dad to watch him; Tony's done things like that before.

**DAD 13:05 03.06.39**

_I really am okay, Peter. Please put your phone away_

_now and enjoy your field trip. I know you've been_

_looking forward to it for weeks. Love you. Dad._

“Your dad is adorable,” Gwen whispers and Peter pins her with a look. “He signs all his texts!”

“Please never say that again.” Dad does sign all his texts though. Peter's tried a thousand times to get him to stop.

“I'm just saying,” Gwen says with a little prim shake of her head. “He's like a giant marshmallow. A giant, red, white, and blue, butt-kicking marshmallow.”

Peter slips his phone back into his bag as they shuffle off of the elevator. “All right!” their tour guide says. “Do we have any tourers who have arachnophobia?”

A couple of girls at the front of the group giggle nervously and Gwen wraps her hand around Peter's arm, leaning up on her toes to look at their guide. “Is he serious?” she whispers.

Peter checks the guide's face again and nods. “Yeah, looks pretty serious.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you?”

“No. No,” Gwen says, shaking her head and staring at the guide as he separates out several of the students who have decided that they are. “No, I'm not _phobic._ I just. Prefer it when they're not near me.”

Peter's laugh catches in his throat. “Oh, well, okay then. You coming?” he asks when the guide starts walking backwards again, waving his hands and talking enthusiastically about OsCorp's numerous spider-related projects.

“Yep,” Gwen says. “Yep, I'm coming. Here I come.” She grabs his hand then, her grip a little too tight, and Peter can't bring himself to care.

“Oh my god,” Gwen breathes a few minutes later when they reach the archway leading into the department's _tour de force_ and her grip on his hand grows a fraction tighter.

The tour guide uses his badge on an access pad, which flashes a little green light, the door making a soft  _click_ as it comes unlocked. It's glass, set in a half moon glass wall, behind which is a tunnel filled with a low lagoon-colored light. The entire class hushes as they move through the door, the tour guide speaking in a stage-whisper.

All up and down the first sections of the tunnel walls are hundreds—maybe thousands—of soft, gauzy white spider's webs, densely woven in between pegs sticking out of the walls. There are tiny eight-legged bodies moving over the webs and Peter stares in awe.

Each section is marked with a small placard, attached to the hand railing and tilted upward for easy reading. The first shows an enlarged image of the little round spiders—they're actually kinda cute—moving across the webs and it reads:  _Aridne borabilias_ – A small genetically modified specimen, which spins masses of webbing. The webs are regularly harvested to be used for various strengthening and binding projects. These spiders produce the strongest, most lightweight, and the most flexible substance on earth.

Peter leans in to get a closer look and Gwen makes a little noise, pulls back on his hand. “Peter, what are you doing,” she hisses, “don't stick your face in there!”

Peter looks back at her and grins, “Relax, Gwen. They wouldn't let us in here if there was anything dangerous.” And—this is one of the things Peter loves about her—Gwen gets that. So she leans in too, holding her breath and just about crushing his fingers, but she leans in and looks. Peter just stares at her, totally dumbstruck.

“Okay,” she says, and waves a finger at a small section, “These ones are actually a little bit adorable.” She looks up at him then and catches him gawking and Peter feels heat flood his face. She gives him a funny look and straightens up, says, “What?” She pats her cheek. “Is there something on my face?”

“No— I was just— You're kind of, you know.”

Now she looks like she's trying not to laugh at him. “Am I now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters and gives her a little push to get her moving. Gwen laughs and it makes the little hairs all down his spine tingle.

The two of them drift along at the very back of the group, reading the placards and examining the various species of spiders—one called _dominae oribus_ has even created these tubes of webbing between each of the pegs, each spider hidden somewhere inside, barely visible. “Okay, those ones creep me out,” Gwen admits. “Come on, next section.” She tugs on his hand and Peter lets her drag him forward.

The last two sections on either side of the tunnel are dummy set-ups. “'The _barola mindicus_ and _aracadia traxila_ are OsCorp's most advanced research specimens',” Peter reads. “'These spiders have been not only genetically modified, but irradiated and as a result must be kept in special habitats to protect the scientists working with them. These displays are to give you an idea of what these specimens and their habitats look like.'”

Gwen's frowning. “Irradiated spiders. That's a terrible idea. It's a miracle any of them are even still alive. Does it say why they're doing it?”

Peter leans down to get a better look at the placard, then across the aisle to look at the other one and shakes his head. “No, doesn't say. Must be something big.”

“Or something ethically questionable,” Gwen mutters. “I mean irradiation, come on. You don't mess with that. You'd think people would learn after what happened to your uncle.”

“Oh man. Can you imagine a spider Hulking out?” Peter says, chuckling as he leans over the railing, checking out the display spiders and admitting he's glad these ones are fake when his stomach gives an uneasy roll. They're the creepiest kind, with long, pointed legs and visible fangs—they look a lot like black widows, but they're pale and semi-transparent, eerie-looking in the blue lighting.

Gwen shudders and says, in a low voice, “Oh my god, don't even joke. My worst nightmare.”

The doors at the end of the hall swing shut behind the last of their classmates as she moves up close behind him and the shifting light tricks Peter into thinking that the display has moved. Dozens of spindly legs waver, reaching out, and Peter's hand clenches around the guard rail. He straightens, a little zing of irrational fear darting into the base of his skull. “Okay,” he says, voice coming out a little higher than it should. “I think I've had about enough of the spiders for today. Gwen?”

Relief breaks across her face. “Oh, thank god, let's go. I don't want to be alone in here.”

It's already too late for that though; they're the only ones left in the muffled quiet of the tunnel. Thanks to his mildly enhanced hearing, Peter can hear a whisper from the far end as thousands of tiny web-spiders skitter around. _How does anyone do research in here without getting a massive case of the creeps?_

Gwen grabs hold of his hand and Peter pulls away from the railing, feels a sharp prick on the side of his hand. “Ouch!” he says, snatching it back.

Gwen hesitates and looks up at him, eyes wide and her face ghostly in the strange blue light. Her freckles are stark across her nose. “Peter? Did something just—”

“No,” Peter mutters, because that's ridiculous, there's no way, and bends forward to peer under the sign on the railing. Gwen's twisting his hand around so she can look at the stinging spot on the side of his hand.

“You have a little cut,” she tells him and Peter nods as she says it because he can see the culprit.

“Yeah, there's a screw under there sticking out.”

“Come on, let's _go,_ ” Gwen says, tugging on his arm, “I am so creeped out right now. I thought you—”

“You thought I got bit by a spider, didn't you?” Peter says, his amusement leaking out into his voice as she hauls him toward the doors. “You thought one of the radioactive spiders was roaming free and attacked me. You thought I was going to turn into The Thing.” He pretends his heart isn't pounding because that thought totally crossed his mind.

“Shut up,” Gwen mutters and pokes him in the ribs. “You, are a First Class Jerk.”

Peter laughs. “First Class, am I. Well, as long as I'm the best.”

The light outside the tunnel is painfully bright and both he and Gwen wince. Mr. Sibbel is standing there waiting for them. “Come on, kids,” he says and curls a hand around behind Peter, trying to hurry them along. “We're getting left behind, let's get a move on.”

“Do you think I'll get tetanus?” Peter asks Gwen in a murmur and she makes a face, elbows him in the ribs.

~ Chapter Three ~

 

Neither of his dads is back from work when Peter gets home at 3:36 PM. He drops his bag by the table and kicks off his shoes as he heads to the kitchen and whatever food might be available for a snack. “Sir,” JARVIS says, “your father prefers you take your book-bag and shoes into your room, rather than leaving them on the floor here.”

That'd be Steve. Tony's as bad about cluttering the house up as Peter is. Probably worse actually. “You know, normal kids do stuff they're not supposed to all the time when their parents aren't home. That's kind of the whole idea. Kids do stuff they're not supposed to, parents come home and tell them off, kids moan and whine and do what they should have done in the first place—family synergy, JARVIS. Why do you want to go ruining that?”

JARVIS sighs without sighing and says, “I really don't know, sir. Perhaps all that energy could be directed toward more positive discussions?”

Peter rolls his eyes because odds are they'd all wind up arguing about what TV show they're going to watch instead, but whatever. “I'll get it after my snack, JARV.”

“Very well, sir,” JARVIS says with another non-sigh. Peter rifles around in the fridge for a minute before settling on some pop—Mexican Coke his dad has shipped in special because it tastes the way Coke did a hundred years ago or whatever—and a take-out box of orange chicken. He takes both to the table and hooks his foot around the leg of one of the chairs to pull it out before plopping down and reaching for his bag. He pulls his books out two at a time, stacking them on the table and then bends to dig for his phone. Gwen should have texted him by now.

His fingers finally find it and as he yanks it out, Peter feels a sharp prick on the back of his hand. “Ow, what the— _ugh!_ ”

He barely catches a glimpse of the pale spider clinging to the back of his phone before he slaps at it and it goes flying.

“Gross,” he mutters and seals his mouth over the little red weal on his hand, turning his attention back to his phone. Gwen has, in fact, texted him and he grins as he texts back: _Took you long enough._

**Gwen 15:51 03.06.39**

_Not everyone has a driver, Mr. Fancy-Pants._

Peter thinks about texting his dad, but resists in the end because Dad's probably in debriefing and Director Fury always gets his panties in a bunch when his dads text during those.

So he spends the next two hours working on his homework and texting Gwen instead. _Finally,_ at nearly quarter to six, JARVIS says, “Your fathers are coming up the elevator, sir.”

He's yanking boxes and pans out of the cabinets when the elevator door pings and slides open and he tries to play it cool as he flips the water on and starts filling one of the pots, his heart pounding.

Tony's voice is the first he hears, though he can't quite make out what he's saying. It sounds snarky, whatever it is. Shocker. Then he calls, “Peter?”

“In here, Dads!” Peter yells back and swings around to put the pot on the stove. He switches on the burner and then turns to greet them, leaning sideways to see into the open floor of the penthouse. It takes a conscious effort not to flinch. Dad looks better with the blood cleaned from his face, but it makes the long line of stitches stark against his pale skin. There have to be at least fifty.

He's also limping.

“He bruised his hip,” Tony says and Peter realizes he's staring. He looks up and Tony tilts his head, his mouth pursing. “Don't give me that look, I didn't tell you because it's not a big deal. It's a bruise. It'll be gone in three days.”

“You practically fell over yourself to try and get me off my feet when I first started moving, Tony,” Steve says, dry.

Tony's nose wrinkles and he shoots a dirty look at Steve. “Sit down before you fall down, old timer.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but eases into a chair on the other side of the bar. “Are you making dinner?” he asks, looking around at the stuff Peter's haphazardly thrown on the counter. Peter looks around at it too and shrugs.

“I'm giving up science. I want to be a chef.”

Tony snorts. “Smartass.”

“I wonder where he gets that,” Steve says, cheek propped on his fist.

“No idea,” Tony replies, blithe, and then sidles into the kitchen and nudges Peter with his elbow, bumps hips with him. “Go give your dad a hug.”

With a groan and an eyeroll, Peter obeys and shuffles around the counter to slide into the seat next to Steve. Dad smiles and lifts his arm so Peter can lean into his side. He kisses the top of Peter's head and Peter huffs, but something inside him that's been tight all day unfurls at last.

“I'm sorry I didn't wake you before I left.”

“S'okay,” Peter mutters into his shoulder. “Evil waits for no man.”

Steve squeezes him and Peter just lets himself enjoy his dad's solid and very present heat for a minute. "When did you get so grown up?" Steve murmurs affectionately.  
  
"Took an e-course in maturity at NYU this afternoon."  
  
Tony nearly chokes on the grated cheese he's just put in his mouth.  
  
Peter manages a half smile before he leans his forehead into his dad's shoulder and says, quiet, "I wish you wouldn't go alone."  
  
Steve's hand curls around the back of his neck. "I wasn't alone. Didn't your dad tell you? Bruce and Clint went with me."  
  
"Yeah, but, I mean when you go without  _Dad._ "  
  
Steve shifts and Peter keeps his face down, refusing to let him lean back and see it. "We can't always go together, Peter."  
  
"I  _know_ ," Peter says and he's whining, he knows he is and he can see Tony out of the corner of his eye just standing there looking at him and he hates it, hates how he feels like a little kid. Peter turns his face into Steve's chest. "I just— If I had more than really great hearing and stupid—stupid  _enhanced_ _metabolism_ I could— When Dad can't."  
  
"Peter, we've talked about this," Steve says gently. "You don't need enhancements to make you capable. You're fast and powerful and  _healthy_ and you're going to be formidable one day, but you're still a kid _._ If you want this when you're older, your Dad and I won't stop you. I can't tell you how proud it makes me that you want to help people and look out for your Dad and I, but you've got school and there's no hurry.”

“I know, I just— _hate it_.”

“I know you do,” Steve says and smooths his hand over Peter's head. “Your time will come faster than you think.”

Peter sighs and the kitchen is quiet aside from the bubbling pot on the stove for a minute. Then Tony says, “Isn't anyone going to ask how my day was?”

Peter snorts into Steve's chest and just like that the gloomy silence is gone.

“Nobody's asked how anyone's day was, Tony,” Steve points out.

“Well, then I should be first,” he says primly, pouring the steaming pot of pasta into a colander in the sink.

Peter grins when Steve rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “How was your day, Tony?”

“Oh, you know,” Tony says and gives the spaghetti a toss. “Same ol' same ol'. Boring board meeting. Even more boring shareholder's meeting. Berated by Pepper for falling asleep during said meetings.”

“You're a terrible role-model, you know that, Dad? Like, really awful.”

Tony turns and flashes a grin at Peter before his eyelids drop to half-mast and he tips his chin at Steve. “That's what you've got your dad for. Evens out.” Peter really wishes he wasn't old enough to recognize it when Tony's smoldering.

Steve gives him a look that clearly says,  _I know what you're doing. Stop it._

But of course Dad's grin just gets  _more_ predatory.

Then he misses the pot a little as he's pouring the spaghetti back in and he curses as a handful of noodles tumble down his front. “Shit, not my Armani—ow, shit those are hot! Ow!”

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh and Peter cracks up, waving his hand when Steve starts to get to his feet. “No, no, I got it, Dad.”

Tony's cursing, shaking his leg, and there are noodles clinging to the inseam of his slacks and puddled on the floor. “Pete— Goddamn it, DUM-E, where are you, you useless piece of junk—”

“Yeah, I can finish,” Peter says, still chuckling as he gathers up the noodles. DUM-E joins him then, beeping and bumping into his shoulder. He's waving a sponge in his claw and Peter pats him, says, “Thanks, DUM-E.”

“Coddler!” Dad yells as he makes his way to the bedroom to change. Peter pours the spaghetti sauce into the pan and stirs it in while DUM-E motors back and forth over the spill. Steve makes a fond noise of exasperation and for a minute, the kitchen is quiet again.

“So...what happened in Cleveland?” Peter eventually asks, glancing back over his shoulder and trying for casual.

Steve gives a slow, weary shrug. “A group of about a dozen militant lunatics were building a bomb on a rooftop. A couple of them were mutants so the Cleveland police couldn't handle it. Bruce came along in case things got messy and your Uncle Clint and I tried to capture them with minimum use of force.” He looks down at the bar top. “We managed it with most, but there were two ordinary men and one mutant who just wouldn't come quietly. The men were throwing  _grenades_ at us, off the building down into the streets and we couldn't get to them. I had to ask Clint to—well.” Steve looks tired and Peter feels small and totally useless. “The last mutant was the worst of all of them. He had these—whips coming out of his wrists that he could control.” Dad touches the line of stitches on his forehead and Peter knows the wound is from one of those whips, can almost picture it happening.

He flinches away from the thought and starts dishing out the spaghetti.

Dad takes a breath and says, “But we stopped them. They're not going to hurt anyone else and that's what matters.”

“I'm sure you handled it flawlessly,” comes Tony's voice and Peter looks up to see him in sweats and an old t-shirt, laying a delicate kiss on Steve's cheek.

Steve smiles and curls his hand around the one Tony's laid on the counter top. “Thanks.”

Tony offers him a faint smile in return and slides his hand up the back of Steve's neck and into his hair, giving the back of his head a rub like he's a puppy. “So, Bambi? Dinner? Yeah? I'm starving.”

“Only if you guys promise to stop making goo-goo eyes at each other for the duration.”

Tony gasps in mock-affront, putting a hand over the arc reactor. Steve nods in agreement. “Done.”

Peter looks to Tony with raised eyebrows and his dad huffs. “Blackmailed by my own kid, geez, that's fantastic, really. Kudos to us on the child-rearing. Bang-up job we did here, Steve.”

“Tony,” Steve chastises, but Tony ignores him and says, “All right, all right, no goo-goo eyes. Gimme.”

Peter grins, pleased, and hands over their bowls. The three of them migrate to the table, Tony watching with sharp, displeased eyes as Steve hoists himself up and then limps over, favoring his leg even more heavily than when they'd come in, but Dad settles into his usual chair and he's not grimacing or anything when he looks up and says, “What about your day, Peter? You hardly said anything about your trip to OsCorp. You've been looking forward to it for weeks.”

Dinner at the table is their thing. Steve insists that the three of them sit down and eat dinner together every night. If he had his way they'd do it for breakfast, too, but Tony's only willing to concede so much, so it's usually Peter and Steve at breakfast, Tony breezing in and out if they're lucky. But Dad says dinner time is Family Time. He knows neither Tony nor Peter is comfortable when they're not multitasking, so he allows them to bring projects to the table as long as they're capable of carrying on a conversation while they work and eat while the food's hot. It's a pretty good system, Peter thinks.

“I still can't believe you were all worked up over _OsCorp,_ ” Tony complains. “Those bozos wouldn't know a technological advancement if it jumped up and bit them in the ass wearing a frilly little tutu.”

Peter rolls his eyes because he's heard this about  _a thousand times._ “They're the leading bio-mechanical technology company in the world, Dad.”

“Exactly!”

Peter rolls his eyes again and turns to face Steve more fully, ignoring the way Tony mutters, “Maturity e-course, my ass.”

“It was great, Dad. They're doing a lot of really cool stuff there. I couldn't take a lot of pictures because, you know, patents and stuff—”

“Secret illegal experiments,” Tony cuts in under his breath.  
  


“—but I got some pretty cool shots that I'll have to show you.”

“More of Gwen?” Steve says, doing a half-hearted job of stifling his smile.

Peter can feel the blood rush to his face. “Dad!”

“She's a pretty girl, I can see why you like taking pictures of her is all,” Dad says, but he looks ready to laugh.

“Gwen is— We're just— It's not _like_ that, Dad, would you just— I can't believe you—”

Tony raises an eyebrow and draws his fork out of his mouth, says, “Methinks the lad doth protest too much.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Steve says, graciously ending _that_ awkward conversation.

“Yeah, _anyway_ ,” Peter says, giving Tony a pointed look that he raises his eyebrows and hands to. “In conclusion, OsCorp is amazing and Dad is an ass.”

Steve laughs and Tony squawks and everything is great. He's got both his dads and they're both okay and he's done all his homework and Gwen wants to Skype later tonight, plus his spaghetti is pretty good.

Then they finish dinner and Steve almost takes a header after tripping on Peter's bag.

“Oh, man,” Peter mutters guiltily as Tony ducks under Steve's arm, his hand curling around to hover protectively over his dad's bruised hip. “I...meant to put that away. Really, I did.”

“Steve? Steve, hey, you okay?”

“I'm fine, Tony,” Steve says, even though he's wincing and leaning into him, his leg bent at the knee so he's not putting any weight on it. He looks up through his bangs and meets Peter's eyes. He doesn't even look mad, but Peter flinches, feeling about two inches tall.

Peter points his thumb over his shoulder. “Um. Bag goes in my room?” he says meekly.

“Please and thank you,” Steve says and it's punctuated by a glare from Tony that just, _really_ drives the point home. It's amazing how guilty they can make him feel with a couple looks. Steve's not even actively _trying._

Peter scoops up his bag and his shoes, mumbling, “Sorry. I'm really sorry, Dad,” before darting for his room.

“Next time just see they get there when you get home, huh?” Steve calls after him.

“Did I mention I'm really sorry?” Peter yells back and tosses his bag in the corner, flopping down on the bed with a groan.

“I did tell you, sir,” JARVIS says and Peter pulls his pillow over his head.

“Shut up, JARVIS.”

~

 

Saturday morning Steve wakes up by increments, but the first thing he registers is the slow, steady throb of the stitches across his forehead. He's a little stiff overall and his hip aches, though not nearly as bad as yesterday. The bed shifts under him and after a minute more of drifting between asleep and awake, he pries his eyes open.

Tony cocks his head and smiles down at him, props his chin on the heel of his hand. “Mornin', sunshine.”

The shades are easing back, morning light coloring Tony's skin gold. Steve's responding smile is inevitable, like the sun coming up, breaking from somewhere deep inside him. “Morning,” he murmurs, curling his fingers around Tony's wrist. “You watching me sleep?”

A smirk flashes across Tony's face. Steve likes how he can see all the hues of the rich brown color of his eyes in this light. “Nope. Figured you'd wake up around now. You usually sleep late after a rough mission.”

Steve frowns even as Tony's eyes move to his forehead. “What time is it?”

“Nine,” Tony informs him casually.

“ _Nine?_ ” Steve groans and starts to push himself up, ignoring the way it makes his temples throb. “I meant to be up hours ago, Tony. JARVIS—”

“I canceled your wake up.” Tony sits up, swinging his legs around so he can sit Indian style, his hand pressing down on Steve's shoulder. “Fifty-three stitches, Steve, not to mention the hip. You didn't think you were going for a run, did you?”

Steve sighs and lets Tony push him back down, covering his eyes with one hand. He hates missing his run, even if it is a terrible idea in his current state.

“How's your head?” Tony asks after a long silence stretches between them.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. “It's throbbing,” he tells Tony honestly. “Feels hot,” he says, waving his hand over his forehead. “Itches.”

“Good. Means it's healing, doesn't it?”

Again, Tony moves, this time scooching so his hip fits into the curve of Steve's side, the heavy band of his jeans poking into soft skin. Then he sets one hand down on Steve's other side and leans over him.

Steve opens his eyes and sees Tony's braced his other arm against the headboard. “That looks awkward,” he says.

“It's not terribly comfortable,” Tony agrees. “And if I stay this way for long, my back's going to give me hell. The view's pretty great though.”

A grin fights to break across Steve's face and he brushes his hand up Tony's side, enjoying the way it makes a faint shiver ripple through him.

Tony dips his head and Steve lets his eyes fall closed as Tony lays careful kisses at either end of the line of stitches before pulling his arm away from the headboard and drawing his fingers through Steve's hair. Steve reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Tony's neck when he finally kisses his mouth, warm and slick and familiar.

When they part, Tony suggests, “Painkillers, hm? Painkillers and breakfast?”

Steve gives him a one-shouldered shrug and tips his head to the side, smiling. “I dunno, this is working pretty okay for me.”

Then his stomach growls, loud and insistent, and Tony falls back, laughing.

Steve's managed to prop himself up on his elbows without wincing too much by the time Tony rolls off the bed and says, “All right, Captain Garbage Disposal. Let's get you something to dispose of before you waste away before my very eyes.”

Tony helps him sit and then waits, a warm presence at Steve's knee, while the pounding in his head fades. His hand rests around the back of Steve's neck, blunt fingers toying with the short hairs there and says, “JARVIS?”

“I have already put the coffee on, sir,” JARVIS replies. “I took the liberty of having DUM-E prepare several stacks of waffles and there were no incidents to speak of.”

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Steve says fervently because now he's _starving_ at the prospect of food and just the faint scent of coffee seeping in under the door is making his mouth water.

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS says, amused.

“Peter?” Tony queries, providing his arm so Steve can lever his way to his feet.

“Still sleeping,” JARVIS reports. “He retired to bed at 1:52 AM, so it is likely he will sleep into the afternoon, as usual.”

“On the phone with Gwen?” Tony says and hangs on to Steve's hand as he takes the first few hobbling steps, his hip stiff and aching. It fades with each step and by the time they make it to the end of the bed, Steve can walk without support, not that that makes him let go of Tony's hand.

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS confirms. “Video chat.”

“Kid's gone and he doesn't even realize it,” Tony mutters.

“Oh, I'm sure he realizes,” Steve says.

Tony waves him off dismissively when they get out into the penthouse common area. “Go sit, I'll bring the chow.”

So Steve does and Tony joins him after a couple of loud minutes in the kitchen, carrying a tray stacked with waffles, a bottle of syrup, a stick of butter, and a battered box of powdered sugar with a bowl of haphazardly thrown together fruit. There are also two mugs of coffee and Steve gets a hold of his as soon as it's within reach, taking a gulp and savoring the way it sears his throat on the way down.

The morning is lazy and perfect. Tony stuffs Steve full of waffles and sprawls on his lap with a StarkPad after retrieving an icepack for his hip. Steve watches Saturday morning cartoons, Tony complaining good-naturedly whenever Steve laughs, jostling Tony's head in the process. “I'm trying to be brilliant here,” he says, “you're like a human earthquake,” and Steve shushes him so he can hear Bugs Bunny take a pot shot at Daffy. Then he cracks up, throwing his head back as he laughs.

Tony gives up about the fiftieth time this happens and growls, dropping the StarkPad on the floor before turning over onto his stomach and settling in while he complains. “Cartoons, honestly,” he says, like they haven't been doing this for the last fifteen years. Like Tony wasn't the one who programmed these line-ups for Steve. “How old are you?”

“Looney Tunes is hilarious,” Steve points out for what might honestly be the millionth time. Mickey Mouse comes on and, don't get him wrong, Steve loves Mickey, but Tony's restless, shifting and twitching around and over Steve's thighs, so Steve stops him wriggling and kisses him. They neck for almost half an hour before Tony pulls back and drags Steve's hands out from under his shirt, an expression like he's cursing himself warping the lines in his face.

“What's wrong?” Steve asks and Tony sits back on Steve's knees, his own knees bracketing Steve's hips.

He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Okay, look, Steve, ah...” He sighs again and meets Steve's eyes. “Clint gave me some more of the details about what happened in Cleveland—about some orders you gave—ow, okay, ease up.”

Steve realizes he's holding on to Tony's knee, digging his fingers in, and releases his grip. “Tony,” he starts, but he has no idea what he wants to say.

Tony starts talking in a rush. “Look, what I'm saying is you're clearly compartmentalizing. Which is fine! Coping mechanism, yadda yadda, whatever, I totally get it, you know I do. I mean, hello, PTSD central, here. And I know it's at least in part because, you know, you're trying to protect me—which, adorable, by the way—and Peter, _sickeningly_ sweet on that count, my god, you really are the perfect father; and that's one of many reasons I love you, but you don't _have_ to. Be happy, I mean.” He winces a little bit and Steve glances down to check that it's not him, his heart doing strange, lurching things in his chest. He can't tell if it's fear or affection causing it. Maybe both. Tony sighs again and plucks at the material of Steve's shirt, over his stomach. “Not that I don't love when you are, that's why I feel like a bastard bringing it up, but— It's okay to be sad, or upset, or both, or angry or _whatever._ Let it rip.I'm Iron Man, I can take it.”

“Tony,” Steve says and his voice comes out hoarse, his throat catching around the word.

“Come on,” Tony wheedles, quiet and uncommonly earnest. “You put up with all my bullshit, Steve. The yelling and the squatting in the lab for days and the truckload of crippling insecurities, not to mention my vast and, in Fury's words, 'frankly terrifying' level of paranoia. The drinking. The emotional constipation. My general inability to take care of myself for extended periods of time. My reckless streak. You can stop me any time,” he jokes feebly and Steve draws him closer, a pang of anxiety cutting through him.

“Tony, that's not—”

Tony doesn't let him seize the distraction though, he peeks up at him from under his eyelashes and gives a little shrug, his mouth pulling into a tiny smile that wrecks Steve. “Hey, it's fine. We've got complementary PTSD manifestations. We lucked out.”

 _Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it_ , Steve thinks and leans forward to put his forehead to Tony's chest, arms curling around his waist. He's quiet for a long time and Tony toys with Steve's hair, waiting patiently, until the words finally push themselves out of Steve's mouth. “Clint added three new names to his list because of orders I gave. Three men died and I put that on Clint's conscience. I made the call, but he's the one who had to pull the trigger. What the _hell_ gives me the rightto do that? _”_ he asks at last, intending to leave it there, but Tony keeps _looking_ at him, dark-eyed and sympathetic, his full and unwavering attention fixed on Steve instead of a part or a StarkPad or a thousand and one other things, and Steve's nearly chokes on the words suddenly fighting to get out of him. He runs through the spectrum of emotions Tony had cited and then through a few more, ranting and lamenting into the warm pocket between their bodies till he feels wrung out.

When the words finally dry up, Tony squeezes his shoulders and says quietly, “See. Still right here.”

Steve lets out an exhausted, slightly congested laugh. “Gonna need more painkillers,” he replies.

Tony hisses. “I bet. Head up. Let me see.”

Steve lifts his head away from Tony's shoulder carefully, wincing at the way the stitches throb, tendrils of pain curling around the inside of his skull, pricking deeper.

“Yeah, the doc would not be stoked by how those look. Bruce would pitch a fit. I'm gonna get the rub and the pills; JARVIS, time?”

“One twenty-two, sir.”

Steve blinks around at the sunny living room and says, “Wow, really?” He scrubs a hand over his eyes and winces as that accidentally pulls on his wound.

“Yes, sir.”

“You hungry?” Tony asks, looking him over, and then waves his hand without waiting for a response. “What am I saying, of course you're hungry. Don't move, I'll get us something.” He pats Steve's thigh and adds, “Lemme up, Stevie.”

Steve releases him and Tony clambers off, glancing toward Peter's bedroom. “'s he still sleeping, JARVIS?” he asks, dutifully piling food on a plate once he's reached the kitchen, along with more painkillers, before bringing it back to Steve. He himself chugs down a pre-made shake. “If he's not up soon our plans are gonna be shot.”

“He is still sleeping, sir,” JARVIS confirms. “Would you like me to wake him?”

“Nah, not yet,” Tony says, dropping his gaze from Steve's forehead where he's applying ointment and giving Steve a look heavy with implication. “Give us another hour or so.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS agrees, even as Steve points a carrot stick at Tony and says firmly, “ _No._ ”

“You don't even know what I—”

“Of course I know what you, Tony,” Steve says, biting the end off the carrot. “I'm eating.”

“You can multitask.”

Steve laughs and says again, firm, “ _No,_ Tony. Let me eat in peace.”

Eventually, Tony does, in fact, relent and allow him to eat, but by that time the idea is solidly planted in Steve's mind and he can't focus on the food anymore.

“Dammit, Tony,” he says and Tony grins, delighted, as Steve pins him to the couch.

“Mm, _yeah_ , Steve,” he breathes, the cheeky ass, and Steve is in the middle of thoroughly kissing him, his t-shirt starting to make him feel overheated, when JARVIS murmurs, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but—” And then he cuts himself off.

Tony breaks away and squirms under Steve—not helpful at all—saying, “But what, JARVIS, what the hell.”

“I think,” JARVIS says, a little hesitant, “perhaps Peter may be oversleeping because he is unwell.”

Both Steve and Tony go still for a second and then Steve sees Tony frown at the same time he does. Steve glances at his watch; Tony calling, “Time?”

“Two after three, sir,” JARVIS replies and Steve's watch confirms it. He shares a look with Tony.

“Why do you say that, JARVIS?” Steve asks, easing back onto his knees as Tony pulls out from under him into a sitting position, his eyes turning toward Peter's door.

“He appears to have a fever,” JARVIS replies and then adds quickly: “A very low fever. Approximately 99.3 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“You think he really caught a bug?” Tony asks and he's already moving to his feet, headed for Peter's room.

Steve shrugs. “It happens. His immune system's better than most, but that doesn't mean he can't get sick.”

That makes Tony look worried and Steve knows why, because the last time Peter was sick, he was seven with the flu and it had knocked him down for almost a month. His immune system kicks most of the common, easily spread bugs, but he's still vulnerable to the heavy-hitters. So when Peter gets sick, he gets _sick_.

Tony pauses a few feet from Peter's door and looks back at Steve, rubbing his fingers against the pads of his thumbs. “You think I should wake him up?”

Steve glances at his watch again. “He's been asleep for twelve hours now. That should be enough even for a teenager. Maybe his body's trying to fight the infection? Give him another hour,” Steve suggests.

Tony's not thrilled about that advice. He grimaces and then takes the last few steps in haste, slipping the door open so he can peek inside. He stays there for a good minute before pulling back and shutting the door behind him. He shuffles back over to the couch and drops down next to Steve, pressing into his side.

Steve brushes his lips over Tony's temple. “Relax, Tony. I'm sure he's fine.”

But the easy intimacy of the morning is gone.

~ Chapter Four ~

  
“Peter. ...Peter. Hey, kiddo, can you hear me? ….Peter?”

Peter groans and drags a pillow over his head. “Dad, 's too early, go'way,” he says.

There's a brief silence and Peter starts to drift off again. Then he feels a hand on his elbow. His other dad says, slowly, “Peter, it's five PM.”

Peter's brow furrows because that makes no sense. He can't have been out for more than a few minutes. He's still so tired.

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony says, his voice sharp with worry and Peter can't ignore that. He tries to open his eyes, to wake up; it's like trying to pull himself out of a thick, dark quagmire, it sucks him back down if he lets up at all.

He finally gets his eyes open and nearly loses what he's gained when he blinks and the darkness creeps over him again.  _Why'm I so tired?_ A little jolt of fear gives him the push he needs to open them fully. Tony's head is poking over the edge of the bed, his hand on Peter's elbow. His hair's absolutely nuts, standing on end in every direction. The bed shifts at Peter's hip and he forces his eyes up. Steve looks back at him, naked concern on his face. “Hey there,” he says.

“Hey, Dad,” Peter rasps and he wants to turn and sit up so he can look at both of them properly, but his limbs feel like they're made of cement.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks.

“Tired,” Peter mumbles; it's too much effort for more. “'S really five o'clock?”

“It really is,” Tony says and now that Peter's paying attention, his body's lodging other complaints. “Just tired?”

“H've to pee,” he says and Tony snorts. “Feel heavy.”

“You okay to get up?” Dad says, curling a helpful hand around his bicep, his blue eyes watchful. The skin between the stitches on his forehead is already starting to look smoother and pinker.

“Kinda stiff,” Peter says and then adds, “but I _really_ have to pee.” He gets a pair of chuckles that are half-hearted at best. Steve helps him get upright and Tony stands up and back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter really just wants to flop back down and go back to sleep, but he swings his legs out and Steve stands with him, not touching, but watching like he's channeling Uncle Clint. “See,” Peter says when he's on his feet. “I'm good.” And he does feel a little better, like he's sloughing off the fatigue.

“Mhm,” Tony says skeptically. “You need a hand in there, Bambi?”

“Ew, no, absolutely not. That is the _last_ thing I need, Dad,” Peter tells him, shuddering. He can feel their gazes on him all the way to the bathroom.

When he emerges and shuffles into the living room they're both there, but they're trying too hard to look casual and Peter's pretty sure they were loitering outside the bathroom until about two seconds ago.

“Hungry?” Tony says, chipper.

“Yeah,” Peter says, surprised to find he's _starving._ He's barely gotten his butt in a chair when Steve puts a plate down in front of him. “Uh, wow. Thanks, Dad. Are we adding instant food prep to your list of heroic abilities?”

“I was making dinner before we decided to wake you up, wise guy,” Steve replies, giving him a look. “Eat.” Peter tosses him a lazy salute even though he knows it drives Steve crazy; it's a bad habit he picked up from Tony and he feels a little bad when his dad scowls. He gets to work on the plate to make it up to him.

He's already swallowed three or four bites when he realizes that neither of his dads is eating themselves. Tony's got his hip against the counter, absently drying dishes as Steve hands them to him, but they're both watching him like he's going to burst into flames any second.

“What?” he says and reaches up to touch his face. “Am I growing mandibles or something?”

“No,” is Tony's immediate volley. “There were just a few torturous minutes earlier when you looked like you were dead and we couldn't get you to wake up, that's all.”

Steve's hands tighten around a bowl he's washing and it shatters. He swears and snaps, “Don't move!” at Tony, who's barefoot.

Amazingly, Dad does as he's told and stays put.

“Your freaked us out, kiddo. Maybe just hold off on the smartass comments for a bit, huh?” he says, eyes serious, as Steve digs the dustpan out from the cabinet under the sink and Peter immediately feels terrible. It's not often that Tony's the one telling him to watch his mouth.

He chokes down the bite he's just taken and it settles, sour in his belly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Steve stops, letting his head drop, and sighs. He puts the dustpan and brush down and covers his face for a second before standing, his expression twisted. “Peter, no. That's not—we know that's how you cope when you're nervous and I'm sorry.” He shrugs helplessly. “Maybe I'm tense.” Tony shifts, starting to move toward him and Steve throws a glare over his shoulder. “I told you not to move.”

Tony holds his hands up, eyebrows popping toward his hairline. “Oo-kay. Not moving. Nope. Staying right where I am.”

“But—I'm a teenager. That's normal, right? Teenagers sleep all day all the time! It's our biological imperative!”

Tony's shoulders creep toward his ears, his hands waving around. “Well, yeah, but it doesn't normally take five minutes to wake you up after you sleep for eighteen hours! What if you contracted mono from that Stacey kid?”

“ _Dad!”_

“Tony! _”_

It occurs to Dad then who he's talking to and he flusters, shuffles his feet and— “ _Fuck!_ OW!”

The change snaps over Steve's face so fast Peter is sure he's blinked. "Hold _still,"_ Captain Rogers orders. "Don't move," and then he lifts Tony, as if his dad weighs as much as Peter, less even, and puts him on the counter.

"Steve," Tony complains, pulling his foot up on his knee to check it out. "Dial it back. I'm fine. Aside from being distracted by our son's sordid personal life, I mean."

But he's hissing with pain as he prods at it and there's probably blood.

“It's not _mono_ , oh my god, Dad,” Peter says. The fact that he's still tired doesn't mean he has _mono_.

"Just. Stay—there," Cap says. Peter hears: _Stay where I put you._ Then Steve sighs and his dad is back, weary and put-upon. “Finish your dinner, Peter.”

Peter's not really hungry anymore, but he tries anyway.

“Don't think I need stitches,” Tony says, poking at the bottom of his foot and making faces while Steve finishes cleaning up the bowl shards.

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Tony huffs. “I have had my share of injuries, you know. I am capable of assessing a wound. I do worse than this in the lab all the time. Not to mention, you know, crime fighting and saving the world.”

Steve puts the dustpan back under the sink and looks up at him as he pulls out the first aid kit. “Just be quiet and let me take care of it, Tony,” he snaps and Peter's eyebrows go up along with Tony's. Dad gets stern with them all the time, but he never snaps.

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, “you've been on edge since yesterday. This definitely isn't about Pete, or the bowl, or the sass, or the _minor_ explosion from earlier, which means it's gotta be job-related.” He gives Dad an assessing look and then says, careful, “Does this have anything to do with Cleveland?”

Peter waits for Steve's reaction, but he's silent, and Peter can't get a read off of his broad back as he stands, favoring his bruised hip. Dad must see something in his face though, because his expression softens.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentle, “hey, hey, come here.”

Steve sets the first aid kit on the counter at Tony's hip and stands just out of reach, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes deliberately fixed on the fridge. “What, Tony.”

“I said _here_ ,” Tony says and leans forward to hook two fingers in his belt, then pulls Steve forward until he's standing between his knees.

“Tony,” Steve says, his arms are still crossed but looser, his eyes darting reluctantly to Tony's face. Peter tries to focus on his dinner, but it's really not that appetizing anymore, now that it's cold.

Tony's shoulders hop in a little shrug and he says casually, “You trust me right?”

Steve just gives him a look. “Against my better judgment.”

“And that's probably your worst lapse in judgment, in what, ever? So tell me what's still bugging you.”

His dad's quiet so long that Peter doesn't think he's going to answer when he finally bursts, “Clint specifically pulled you aside to tell you about the orders I gave—I made the wrong call and you're my second in command so of course he'd go to you if my judgment was compromised—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, _no_. Steve. What? No. He told me about the orders because he was worried you were going to do _this._ He told me you did what you had to do, _because you always do,_ but that it involved eliminating some guys who wouldn't play nice and you take it personally every time and you let it eat at you, exactly like you're doing _right now_. Gotta say, he's got you pegged.”

“I don't always do the right thing, Tony,” Steve says quietly, eyes on his hands resting on Tony's knees.

Tony gives him a look. “What did Clint and Bruce tell you?”

“That I made the right call,” Steve mutters.

“Well, there you go then. That's three people you trust telling you you're being an idiot.”

“You're being an idiot, Dad,” Peter puts in, for good measure, and his dads glance over at him, Tony catching his eye and smiling.

“Make that four people you trust,” he amends and gives Steve a chastising look. “So knock it off. Idiocy doesn't look good on you.”

Steve huffs in reluctant amusement and he nods; Tony smiles, then they're kissing and ew.

“Gross, guys, seriously? I have to eat here in the future.”

Tony flips him off, pulls Steve closer, and Peter groans.

“ _Really?”_

He turns around and tries to tune them out after that. After a minute or so, Tony says, a little breathless—ew ew ew no _why_ — “This is what a healthy relationship looks like, kiddo. Soak it in.”

“You guys are seriously the _worst,”_ Peter grumbles.

“Your dad's right,” Steve says and he sounds a lot happier, which isn't horrible, or it wouldn't be if it weren't for _kissing_.

Peter feels a little nauseated. “I'm going to throw up,” he announces.

His dads just laugh. Jerks.

~

Later that night, Tony's only just closed his eyes when JARVIS murmurs, “Sir.”

His eyes pop open. “Peter?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies and there's something like worry in the modulation of his voice that catapults Tony out of bed. Steve doesn't move, heedless of the noise and the movement, his body trained to sleep and sleep _good_ when it's given the opportunity.

The tile floors are cool against Tony's bare feet, which slap noisily as he runs for Peter's bedroom.

He throws open the door and finds the lights up—thank you, JARVIS—and Peter leaning over the side of his bed, puke dripping sluggishly down the sheets to a puddle on the floor. “Shit,” Tony says and Peter lets out a strangled sort of laugh before he gags and heaves again.

Well, it's probably not mono.

“Steve!” he yells, knowing that will be enough, and crawls up the bed behind Peter, puts his hand right in the middle of the kid's bony back. He's warm even through the material of his t-shirt. Tony remembers the last time Peter looked like this, eight years ago, remembers how terrifying it had been to have to hook Peter up to an IV to keep him from getting dehydrated. He wonders if this is going to be a repeat.

“Lookin' good, kiddo,” he says, forcing his voice steady, and Peter groans, the sound vibrating against Tony's palm.

“What happened?” comes Steve's voice, breathless, and that's a pure fear reaction. The serum makes it nearly impossible for him to fatigue like that, especially not the fifty feet or so between here and their bedroom.

“Looks like Bambi's definitely caught a bug,” Tony says and Steve's shoulders loosen a little. He gives Tony a dirty look.

“You scared me half to death, Tony, I thought something was really wrong.”

“Our kid's puking up his guts,” Tony says. “That's not wrong enough for you? I'm sure Peter thinks it is.”

The noise he gets in response is a moan-whimper type thing that makes his gut twist. Tony knows  _this_ brand of misery all too well. “Think you're about spent?” he asks, gentler.

“Think so,” Peter mutters and spits weakly, grimacing.

“Okay, we're gonna get you up outta this mess and get you set up in the bathroom so you can have some cool porcelain to cling to. JARVIS, send in the 'bots to take care of this. And send Bruce up, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies.

“All right,” Tony says decisively. “Let's get you out of this fabulously vomit-adorned shirt, shall we?” He hooks his hands under Peter's arms and drags him upright, which actually takes some serious effort, the kid may be skinny, but he's not handling his own weight at the moment. He's floppy and loose-limbed and he sinks back against Tony's chest as soon as he moves his hands, his head lolling back on Tony's shoulder.

A groan seeps out of his chest and Tony recognizes the sound for the omg-going-to-puke warning sign it is. “Yeah, all right, I know, buddy. Shallow breaths, swallow. Just keep it under control for another second.” He tugs Peter's shirt up and pulls it off. “You're lucky I have a lot of experience with vomit,” he informs him cheerfully and Peter makes a noise of disgust. The muscles in his torso make a distinctive upward motion and Tony pushes Peter forward so when he retches, what he brings up goes on the floor and not on their persons. He rubs the heel of his hand along Peter's spine in long, circular motions, waiting the spasms out. When the puking finally stops, Peter hangs in Tony's grip, panting and shivering. Tony draws him back, subdued, and says, “Hey, Steve, you wanna do the honors?”

Steve doesn't say anything, but the bed sinks under his weight a second later. Tony helps turn Peter onto his back and then Steve slips his arms under his knees and around his back, picks him up like he's still five-years-old. Steve draws him close to his chest, presses his lips to the crown of Peter's head and Peter leans into him, wraps his hand around the fabric of his t-shirt. Tony can't resist touching both of them, brushing back Peter's hair and squeezing Steve's shoulder.

Neither of them says a word, but he and Steve head straight for their bathroom, Tony pausing to haul the comforter off of their bed before darting in ahead of him to dump it next to the toilet. He's spent his fair-share of nights hugging the toilet bowl, so he knows it's better with something soft and warm to curl up in between puking jags.

“Dad— Dad— Put me down—” Peter chokes and Steve just about drops to get him down as fast as he can. Peter drags himself over the bowl and as he starts heaving, Tony can see Steve's abs clench sympathetically.

“Hand me a washcloth, Tony? Damp,” Steve says quietly, crouching and putting a hand on Peter's lower back. Tony digs a washcloth out of one of the drawers by the sink and wets it, all without ever looking away from them. Watching Steve take care of Peter has never failed to short out his lungs. It's bittersweet, this sharp lance of pain that strikes him when he wonders why his father didn't do—why he wasn't important enough—but then it's this _balloon,_ expanded to bursting inside him, so damn grateful that even if he can't, Steve makes sure Peter gets everything he never did.

He holds the dripping washcloth out, still staring, and Steve shoots him a look from under his brows—pure exasperation—and wrings it out over the tub. By now Peter's bowed over the seat, breathing like he's just run a marathon, spitting weakly and clumsily every so often. Steve puts the rag to the back of Peter's neck and Peter groans softly, bending forward until his forehead's resting against the back, his eyes closed. Steve wipes along the sides of his face and then lays the washcloth across the back of Peter's neck and draws his fingers through Peter's hair, peering at his face, ever watchful. “Doin' okay, buddy?”

“Okay's I can be,” Peter mumbles, his voice echoing up out of the toilet bowl. “This sucks.”

“Blows, actually,” Tony says automatically. “Blows chunks, if we're going to be specific, and of course we should be, that's only scientific.”

Peter groans and turns his head enough that he can glare up at Tony through one eye. “You did not. You did not just.”

Tony pulls one hand from the crook of his elbow so he can wave it around. “What, it's apropos.”

Then Peter moans and turns his face back down. “We are not related. I refuse.”

Steve's mouth curls with amusement as he pats Peter's shoulder and says, “Sorry, kiddo. You're fifty percent his, we made sure of it.”

“I'm throwing up everything we've collectively eaten since I was born, you could at least let me pretend for awhile.”

It's a joke. Tony knows it's a joke. He's a teenager this is what they  _do_ and Tony  _knows_ that, but goddamn it if it still doesn't feel like a knife sliding between his ribs. He tries to smile and feels his mouth twitch, but it's all wrong.  _We are not my family,_ he tells himself sternly.  _We are_ not _my family._

“ _Dad_ ,” Peter says suddenly and he sounds exasperated.

“Huh?” Tony says, pulling himself out of his own head. “What?”

“I can hear you thinking stupid things from all the way over here,” Peter says and he's got his face turned all the way now so he can look at Tony with both eyes, serious. His skin's practically the same color as the toilet. “Stop it.”

Tony sniffs and steps back, crossing his arms over the arc reactor, his hands curled around his ribs. “Don't be ridiculous. I never think stupid things. That's absurd. I have never had a single stupid thought in my life. If I ever had a stupid thought—”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve says affectionately and rolls up onto his feet in one motion, grabbing Tony before he can back away any further.

“Hey,” he protests, “Get off of me, you big oaf. If I want to get groped I'll go to a strip club.”

“No, you won't,” Steve murmurs, nuzzling his temple and pulling him closer. “You'd never leave Peter when he's sick like this.”

Tony opens his mouth to argue, but he really can't. He can't even fake that argument. “I—”

Steve gives him a squeeze, tight enough to take his breath away for a second and then he pushes him down next to Peter, with just enough pressure that his legs give and he drops on his ass and skids a few inches to the tub. “Ow, hey. Watch it, I'm breakable.”

“I know your limits,” Steve says with a slow smirk that makes Tony swallow with difficulty and Peter mutter, “Ew, Dad.”

Then Peter's burrowing into his chest, muttering irritably when he smacks his head on the arc reactor and then wadding up the comforter over it and pushing and prodding Tony until he's comfortable. He's like a furnace and Tony starts sweating almost instantly.

“Do I look like a pillow to you?”

“Mm,” Peter mumbles. “T'lk too m'ch.”

Tony snorts and after a second, brushes his fingers through Peter's hair. Peter hums and presses closer. It's like he's seven all over again, bowled over by the flu, clingy and unbearably hot. Tony wraps his arm around him tighter and presses his mouth to the top of his head. “I don't... I know I don't say it much...” he starts after clearing his throat half a dozen times. “But, Peter—”

“I love you, Dad,” Peter says. “Even when you're ridiculous.”

Tony blinks and his fingers tighten and he sucks in a sharp breath.

_God, Stark_ , he thinks,  _you really are the worst father ever._

~ Chapter Five ~

 

Steve brings Bruce and a cup of juice when he comes back. “Look who I found in the living room,” he says and he's glad to see Tony still clutching Peter like a teddy bear, his eyes soft, the way they always get when he thinks no one's watching him. Tony has this crazy idea that he doesn't love Peter  _enough_ and Steve can't understand that. Steve's not sure anyone's ever been loved as fervently as Tony loves Peter. It baffles him that Tony can't see it himself.

“Hey, quiet,” Tony orders in a low voice. “I think he's asleep again.” He glances up after a beat, his eyes darting between the two of them and then zeroing in on Bruce. Steve's not sure if it's actually his expression that changes or if it's just something Steve can sense after so much time, but there's a sharp kind of anxiety there somewhere when he says, “Kinda sudden onset, isn't it? Did Steve explain? I'm assuming he explained. But if he didn't—Peter's chucking up his guts, feels hot, too.”

Bruce gives Tony a fond look while Steve tries to hide his reflexive smile at Tony's worry-babble. “How many times do I have to tell you I'm not a medical doctor?” Bruce asks.

Tony snorts. “What, because you don't have a degree?”

“To start with,” Bruce says, rolling his eyes.

“Just get over here and check him out already,” Tony gripes mulishly. Then he glances down and grimaces. “I don't suppose you can do it without waking him.”

“No, it's fine,” Bruce says. “I can check his temperature under his arm and—” He gestures at Peter's slack mouth, a grin playing at his lips. “—I don't think getting a swab will be a problem.”

“Ah, yes,” Tony says and nods regally. “Our son. Isn't he beautiful? The fairest in the land.”

Steve can't help a huff of laughter, especially when the bead of drool that's been gathering on Peter's lower lip finally dribbles over and oozes down in a long string onto Tony's t-shirt. Tony watches this, too, with exasperation, and says, “Seriously. Kid's a lady-killer. Everybody else go home, no contest, winner takes all.”

Tony jokes now, but Steve remembers the day Peter was born, the look of unadulterated awe on Tony's face when the nurses brought their little boy out, wrapped in a tiny, fuzzy blue blanket. He'd been so small he could have fit in one of Steve's hands easily, but Steve had cradled him close with both arms, Tony practically standing on top of him, his mouth open.  _“Look at his nose,”_ he'd said.  _“Jesus Christ, Steve, look at how tiny his nose is. Look at his fingers!”_

Steve had been amused.  _“Haven't you ever seen a baby before?”_

“ _Sure, on_ TV. _Are you sure he's supposed to be this small? I mean, my god. We could break him and we wouldn't even realize until it was too late.”_

“ _We're not going to break him_ ,” Steve told him.

“ _I don't know,”_ Tony said, skeptically. _“I break stuff all the time. Lots of stuff. Your stuff, my stuff—I've kind of made a career—_ two _, out of breaking stuff.”_ He shuffled back, his expression clouding over with anxiety and Steve grabbed his arm, pulled it out and around to create the perfect cradle.

Then he eased Peter into it, ignoring Tony's audible gulp and the abject terror on his face, and said,  _“You've got him.”_

Tony had, of course, drawn Peter protectively against his chest, staring wide-eyed. _“Hey. Hey, there, you.”_

One little fist had broken free of the blanket and smacked against Tony's chest just beside the arc reactor, two round eyes blinking sleepily up at him, and it was like watching the dawn break, the way Tony's face had gone from uncertainty to awe, joy. Indescribable. “ _Holy shit,”_ Tony breathed. _“This is_ us _. I've never seen anything so beautiful in my—how did we—Jesus,_ look _at him, Steve_.”

 

And that had pretty much been the default expression on Tony's face when he looked at Peter from then on. Steve loved Peter, loved him with everything he had, but Tony, Tony  _ worshiped _ Peter.

“His temperature's a hundred degrees exactly,” Bruce says, sitting back on his heels. “Low-grade. That's a good sign.”

“Yeah?” Tony says, perking up. “Fantastic.”

“Now I'll just...” Bruce leans forward again, carefully inserting a swab through Peter's parted lips. It only takes a second and then he's drawing back, dropping the swab into a tiny sterile container. “That should be all I need. The flu tests take about fifteen minutes, we'll start there and see what turns up. In the meantime, make sure he gets that juice in him when he wakes up, maybe some crackers, too.”

“Gotcha,” Tony says. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You're welcome,” Bruce says, wry, and Steve moves forward to offer a hand when he reaches for the counter to lever himself to his feet. “Thanks,” he says, massaging one knee with his free hand.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Steve says, holding on to his hand for a moment, catching his eye.

Bruce smiles and ducks his head. “This is—it's nothing, really.” He shrugs and glances over his shoulder. “It's Peter.”

Even after nearly two decades, Bruce still hasn't quite accepted that he _and_ Hulk are welcome. Steve squeezes his shoulder. “It's not nothing. You're keeping Tony from losing his head. That's no easy task.”

Bruce chuckles into his shoulder and pats his back twice before leaning back. “There is that.”

“Can you two go talk about me somewhere else,” Tony says with lofty peevishness. “My kid's sleeping here, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” Bruce says, hands held up in surrender. He slips the sample into his bag and then moves to the door. “I'll let you know when I've got something.”

“You do that,” Tony says and then Bruce is gone. Steve leans into the counter, watching Tony shift slightly under Peter. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm too old to be sitting on the bathroom floor.”

Steve smiles, holds out his hands in offering. “You want me to take him?”

“No,” Tony says, too quick, his arms tightening reflexively around Peter and Steve fights a growing smile. When he makes no further moves, Tony eyes him suspiciously. “Are you just going to stand there and stare or what? Get over here.”

“The view's pretty nice from here,” Steve replies and Tony rolls his eyes, but it doesn't quite mask his pleased expression.

“God, you're corny. Before I change my mind.” He waves his hand insistently and Steve allows himself a grin, pushing off the counter and easing down next to Tony, back against the tub, their shoulders touching.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, Tony staring kind of vacantly off into space, his fingers running through Peter's hair in lazy loops and curly cues, Steve watching and oddly soothed by the sight. Finally he yawns, stretching, and Tony's giving him a look equal parts suspicious and incredulous when he lets his arm settle across the rim of the tub behind Tony's shoulders. The look of absolute incredulity on his face that follows is priceless.

“You did not just  _ fake yawn  _ so you could use The Move on me.”

“What's The Move?” Steve says, directing another yawn into the palm of his free hand. He lets the other creep onto Tony's shoulder.

“Oh my god, fake yawn _ s! _ Plural! To use The Move on me! Don't give me that Captain America, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth bullshit,” he says, outraged. “You know damn well what The Move is.”

Peter snuffles, frowning in his sleep, and turns his face into Tony's chest, smearing drool across the logo of the shirt.

“You're going to wake him up,” Steve murmurs, chastising, and he can barely contain his laughter.

“You— I—” Tony splutters. “ _ You started—” _

 

Steve curls his hand around Tony's neck and kisses him to shut him up. Sometimes, that's the only way.

~

 

“What if this is like the last time?” Tony is saying in a low, anxious voice when Bruce returns.

Bruce smiles reflexively upon finding Peter has migrated to Steve's lap. It's amazing how young he looks; Bruce is just starting to get used to the sharper angles of Peter's teenaged face, but like this he could be eleven or so, if not for his long, gawky limbs. Bruce's smile turns bemused when he finds Tony sprawled on his back on the floor. “Then we'll do our job and take care of him,” Steve says, his voice quiet in deference to the boy sleeping on top of him. “He'll be sick; he'll get better. It happens.”

“'For everything there is a season', blah blah blah,” Tony mutters sullenly, “yeah, thanks. I still hate it when he's sick.”

“Me too,” Steve says, adjusting Peter slightly in his lap.

Bruce raps lightly on the door and Tony tilts his head back so he can see. He points at Bruce. “Don't. Say. A word. _I am not old, dammit._ ”

“I never said you were,” Bruce says, very deliberately Not Laughing.

“Shut up, rage monkey, nobody asked you.”

It's better to pretend Tony isn't there when he gets like this, so Bruce looks to Steve and says, “So, the preliminary tests indicate it's not the flu.”

“One down, a million to go?” Steve says, his mouth bending in a crooked half-smile.

Bruce smiles back. “That's pretty much the gist of it—really, you can calm down, Tony. It doesn't mean much that the prelims were negative.”

“I'm calm,” Tony says indignantly and Bruce has to bite down on a smile because he's very clearly  _ not  _ even if he is lying on the floor. “Who says I'm not calm? I'm perfectly calm. Steve's the one losing his head here. I'm cool as a cucumber.”

“A cucumber on fire, maybe,” Steve says and one of his hands moves to Peter's back, his thumb rubbing circles on his shoulder.

Even now, Steve's sense of humor tends to catch Bruce by surprise and his burst of laughter almost covers up a snort from Peter.

Tony jackknifes upright though, crossing his legs under him, and scoots closer, saying, “Hey. Peter? Buddy?”

Peter's eyes open with some obvious difficulty. “Yeah, Dad,” he says and his voice sounds rough, exhausted. Bruce watches him carefully, setting aside the part of him that sees his nephew, that feels a pang watching him in such evident discomfort. He needs to be as objective as possible administering care—fortunately he's got a lot of practice with cordoning off and controlling different parts of his mind.

“Hey,” Tony says, his face softening and some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. “How're you feeling, Bambi?”

“Shitty,” Peter mumbles and Steve makes a noise of disapproval.

“Language.”

“'s true,” Peter mutters and grimaces as he shifts. Likely from general aches, probably caused by the fever he's running if the flush on his cheeks is anything to go by.

“You still nauseous?” Tony asks.

“Don't remind me,” Peter replies, squints around the bathroom. Bruce makes a mental note of that: potential light sensitivity. “How long's I asleep?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his fingers absently against Peter's calf and Peter's brow furrows slightly. “'Bout twenty minutes.”

He waggles his fingers a little, his hand flopping slightly. “Don't do that,” he says.

Tony takes a second to realize what Peter's talking about and then he pulls his hand back, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Sorry. Annoying?”

Peter shakes his head and closes his eyes again. “No. Hurts.” That's not surprising. Peter tends to be hypersensitive when he's sick; Bruce thinks it might have something to do with the super soldier serum, but he has no way to test that theory.

“It hurts?” Tony echoes, his voice sharpening. Peter doesn't respond immediately and he goes on, hard, _“Peter.”_

He sighs and drags his eyes open. “I'm just achy, Dad. Chill out.”

“ _Chill out_ —”

“Tony,” Steve says, warning.

Tony twists around, looking back over his shoulder. “Bruce?”

“It's fine, Tony,” Bruce says, soothing as he knows how. “Aches are a common symptom of a fever and you know as well as I do this is how Peter _is_ when he's sick. Just take a few deep breaths and relax. His symptoms are mild.” Tony gives a short, reluctant nod and Bruce turns his attention back to his son. “Peter, I'd like to do an exam, if that's all right with you?”

“Okay,” Peter croaks. “Just a second.” And he heaves himself out of Steve's lap, clutching the toilet seat as he gags and chokes. In the back of Bruce's mind, the Uncle winces because all that's coming up now must be bile. When the spasms finally ease, Peter slumps against the porcelain, arms shaking so hard he can barely hold on. His face is damp with sweat and maybe tears. He reaches up with one trembling hand and flushes the toilet.

“Peter?” Steve says, quiet, almost tentative.

Peter pushes back onto his heels with a faint wince that Bruce guesses is from aching joints and pushes back the sweaty hair clinging to his forehead. He wipes his mouth, tries to smile at the three men watching him. “I'm. I'm good,” he says and when Tony's face starts to contort, he amends, “Better. That helped. Really.”

Which is a good sign, or at the very least, an opportunity. “Great.” Bruce says, “I'll give you some Dramamine so you can try to get some rest and you should drink the—what was it you brought with you, Steve?”

Steve finally tears his eyes away from Peter's face. “What? Oh. Coconut water. Mixed with pineapple juice, I think? It's Tony's.”

“Eugh,” Peter says, grimacing. “I hate that stuff. It's all. Salty.”

“You've been throwing up a lot,” Bruce says, “it'll probably taste pretty sweet right now.”

Peter's nose wrinkles, but he accepts the glass Steve retrieves off of the counter for him, holding it with both hands because his arms are still too wobbly for one to support it alone. He takes a wary sip.

“You sure you're not going to puke anymore?” Tony asks. “'Cause you can have our bed if you are. If you're not, that's our marriage bed and I'd prefer you didn't sully it with whatever pathogen you've got crawling around inside you right now.”

 

“I'm more concerned about what _you've_ sullied it with, Dad.”

Tony smirks. “It's cute that you think it's the bed you have to worry about.”

“Tony!” Steve protests, but it's with a long-suffering understanding of how futile the effort is. “Peter, I always wash the sheets—”

“ _Dad_ , gross _ , _ that is not helping! _ ” _

 

“What your dad and I share is not gross,” Steve says, his mouth hardening into a thin line.

“Uh, you're my  _ dads, _ ” Peter says, “That's pretty much the pinnacle of grossness.”

Steve's expression slips a little, exasperation sneaking in and he says, “Bed. Now.”

Steve doesn't bother asking if he wants to try and get there himself, just scoops Peter up and carries him, sliding him into the flung open right side of the bed, conscious of the glass in Peter's hands. Peter sinks into the pile of pillows. Steve pulls the sheet over his legs and then tosses the comforter out over him, too, and it settles onto the bed.

“Here,” Bruce says, and holds out a hand, dropping a pill into Peter's palm when he reaches out. “The Dramamine.” Peter swallows it and chases it with a small sip out of the glass, which Bruce then tips back up to his mouth. “At least half, please.”

Peter looks like he wants to protest; it's telling when he doesn't, sipping gingerly instead.

“Let's get that exam done,” Bruce says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Peter lets Bruce slip the thermometer in his mouth and then lays still as Bruce reaches up and presses his fingers carefully into the sides of his neck, feeling for his lymph nodes—both unswollen. The thermometer beeps and Bruce glances at it before prompting Peter to open his mouth. His throat looks good. “I'm going to get a blood sample now,” Bruce murmurs and Peter volunteers his arm without a fuss.

“I'm going to tentatively say we're dealing with the flu here,” he says when the syringe is full, and slides it free of Peter's arm, recapping the needle.

“Coulda told you that,” Peter mutters, pulling a pillow to his chest and curling around it as his eyelids droop.

Bruce smiles and pats his shoulder, giving a light squeeze when his hand comes down the second time. “Get some rest, Peter, we'll see if you feel better in the morning.”

“Rest?” Tony says, sounding incredulous and indignant in equal parts. “He's been asleep for seventeen out of the last twenty-four hours.”

“Then obviously he needs it,” Bruce counters, tucking the syringe back into his bag, and getting to his feet. “Come on.” He waves his hands, ushering them toward the door. “Out.”

Steve bends and kisses the top of Peter's head before obeying. Tony grumbles and catches Peter around the back of the head with his hand, ruffles his hair. “Sleep tight, kiddo.”

Peter turns his head and _coughs_ into one of the pillows, says, “Oops.”

It's an effective anxiety-killer; Tony's face twists, vacillating between amusement and a sort of stunned outrage.

“I brought you into this worldand I can sure as hell be the one to see you back out of it!” he yells as Steve drags him out. Laughter follows them into the living room.

~ Chapter Six ~

 

 

Clint had crawled into her bed at two-thirty, waking Natasha instantly.

“Problem?” she'd murmured, reserving eye-opening for confirmed trouble. This has been their ritual for a long time; Clint does his late night rounds and then comes to update her.

“Probably not. Pete's sick.”

“Very?”

She felt the mattress shift as he shrugged. “Doesn't seem like it. Flu's my guess.”

“Mm,” she had murmured, drawing her pillow close again. “Get out.”

Clint had huffed a laugh and slipped out the way he'd come.

Sunday morning Natasha wakes at seven as is her custom, brushes her teeth, and dresses, then goes to seek information and breakfast.

She finds both within moments of one another. A bagel is obtained in the kitchen and when she steps onto the elevator with it a few moments later to ride to the penthouse, Gwen Stacey is standing at the back, clutching an enormous book to her chest.

Natasha reflexively smothers a smile when her eyes round as Natasha steps into the car. “Good morning, Miss Stacey,” Natasha says, inclining her head.

“Um,” Gwen says, and then flushes prettily in a way that forces Natasha to turn her head away in order to hide her smile because it reminds her too much of Steve. “H-hi, Ms. Romanova. It's— it's nice to see you again.”

Natasha is charmed because Gwen means it, despite how obviously intimidated she is. Her reward is a genuine smile. “Going to see Peter?” she asks.

Gwen nods, looking mystified. “Yes. We've got this _massive_ World History exam on Tuesday, so unless he's got, you know, _the_ _plague_ , we've got a ton of studying to do. We're both miserable history students,” she confides, leaning toward Natasha, which pleases her far more than it should.

The elevator gives out a gentle chime as they arrive at the penthouse. All of the tension in Gwen's frame Natasha has managed to dispel reappears when the doors open and reveal Tony waiting there.

“Hey, there, Gwen,” Tony says, and brings his eyes up from where they're focused on a bandage on his foot, his mouth twisting into an alarming shape that vaguely resembles a smile. He appears to be trying to burn a hole straight through her with his eyes alone. “How're things?”

~

“Your dad _really_ doesn't like me,” Gwen observes when she and Peter finally get settled on the couch in the center of the Stark Tower penthouse, and peeks back over her shoulder to where Steve and Peter's other dad are talking in low voices (and, okay, yes, she is too petrified of him to even _think_ his name, but when a guy's dad gives you the hurt-him-and-I'll-hurt-you talk while testing the destructive capabilities of his self-made superhero-suit gauntlets, it's not unwarranted). The Other Dad glances their way, catching her looking, and Gwen whips back around and freezes that way.

He laughs, quietly, evilly, and she hears Steve's voice turn admonishing.

Beside her, Peter sighs, slumped toward her in his burrito of blankets, and says, “He doesn't not like you. Dad's just...” He looks up at her from near her shoulder, gray-skinned and exhausted. “He has trust issues.” Then he cuts his eyes toward her and says, just a _little_ resentful, “I'm surprised _Steve_ didn't tell you all about it, since you guys are best friends now.”

A sharp, short laugh bursts out of Gwen and she twists on the couch to face him, saying gleefully, “Oh my god, are you _jealous?_ ”

“Don't blaspheme,” Peter mutters, sullen. “Isn't it bad enough one of them doesn't like you?”

“I thought you said it he didn't not like me.” She refuses to be diverted and pushes Peter's shoulder, says, delighted, “You're totally jealous. Peter, he's like, three times my age. And that's not even counting the seventy years he spent frozen. I mean, I have eyes, he's flawless, but—”

“Please, stop, _I'm begging you_. How did this conversation even happen?” Peter moans and brings the blanket up to cover his head.

Gwen leans toward Peter and pries the blanket back, taking pity on him, and puts a finger on his nose. “It's okay. I'm pretty sure your dad thinks I'm going to ravish his baby boy and then break his heart and that's too sweet to be upset about.”

Peter grimaces. “I'm fif _teen_ , I'm more grown up than he is half the time. I'd like the chance to develop my own trust issues. Wait, did you say—”

But Gwen is a little bit evil herself, so she heads him off easily, says, “Where did we leave off anyway? Chapter Fourteen?”

“Umm...” Peter's ridiculously out of sorts right now and his whole brow furrows as he tries to remember. Gwen finds it adorable. “That sounds right,” he says, eventually.

Gwen gives him a long, hard look. Saying so hadn't won her any points with the Other Dad, but he really does look awful. “Peter, are you sure you want to do this? I mean, I know the exam's a big deal and everything, but you look a little bit like you might be dying and I'm sure your dads can convince the school to let you take it when you're feeling better.”

Peter shoves himself upright and then leans toward her, a little drunkenly, and says, “How do you know I won't be feeling better _Tuesday._ Then I'll be _screwed._ ”

“That's true,” Gwen says. “Okay, if you think you're up to it.”

“God, no,” Peter says and flops down again, the crown of his head pressing into her arm. “I mean, 'gosh, no',” he revises a second later, throwing a half-hearted glance toward the kitchen. Gwen smothers a giggle behind her hand and glances back, too. Both Peter's dads seem to be occupied now, engrossed in a conversation. The other dad is sitting on one of the counters, gesticulating enthusiastically and Steve's leaning against the counter, listening intently to whatever the other dad is saying, too low for her to make out more than the low hum of his tone. They're obviously best friends, buddies, and it's totally unlike the soft, romantic thing her parents have got going on, not that there's anything wrong with soft and romantic. Gwen just wants something different. Something more like what Peter's dads share, and she's hoping maybe she can have it with Peter.

“I don't think he heard you,” she whispers.

“I heard,” Steve replies, glancing their way with a slow, warm smile, and Peter gives her a _see what did I tell you_ look.

“Super hearing,” he says by way of explanation.

“So don't even think about creeping off to make-out. We'll know,” Peter's other dad says and Peter covers his face with his hands, groaning.

“Like you don't have JARVIS watching our every move, geez, dad. Even if we _were_ going to make-out, I'm sick. That's gross.”

“He's right,” Gwen says, nodding. “I saw what he ate for breakfast and not _before_ he ate it. Kind of a mood-killer,” she tells him in a stage-whisper. Because Gwen may be afraid of him, but that just tends to make her extra cheeky. She talks when she's feeling panicky, okay?

The comment makes the other dad's mouth twitch, violently, in a direction that suggests he's battling a smile, but Gwen's not about to let that get her hopes up.

“Let's get to work,” she says and cracks open the book.

 

Steve picks up a StarkPad not long after the three of them retreat to the lab because it's not like he's going to be any help with any of this science stuff. That's all Bruce and Tony, but he has to keep himself occupied somehow or he's going to lose his mind stewing over Peter, imagining him up in their bed, miserable and shivering and...

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself firmly and drops his gaze to the newspaper he's got open on the Pad. There's a little red alert over the first icon at the bottom of the screen and his eyebrows rise, curiosity piqued. He taps it and watches with interest as the newspaper shrinks and vanishes, replaced by the message program the team frequently uses to communicate within the Tower.

_a little birdy—and by a little birdy I mean myself—tells me petes under the weather._

Steve huffs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

 _How many times do I have to tell you, Clint, spying on everybody in the middle of the night is weird_ , he types back.

 _not spying_ , Clint replies, _perimeter check_.

_Do you understand the meaning of the word "perimeter"?_

_1\. the border or outer boundary of a two-dimensional figure_

_Copy-pasting doesn't count, Clint. And still wouldn't involve ours or Peter's rooms._

Clint's cheeky responses are exactly the distraction Steve needs, but Clint doesn't take long to get impatient.

_so petes sick?_

Steve sighs and taps out, _Yeah, throwing up, etc._

_flu?_

_No._ Steve squeezes one hand between his knees. Hesitates and then types, _Tony's worried. Peter was bit the other day on a field trip._

 _bit?_ comes back instantly.

 _Radioactive spider._ Part of Steve finds it strange that he doesn't find that phrase unusual. _Might be, anyway._

Clint doesn't reply after that and Steve waits for almost five minutes before giving up on the conversation. He's tapping back to the newspaper when a vent on the wall in the corner pops out, startling both Bruce and Tony—Tony swearing as he smacks his head into a swivel screen and Bruce barking, “Clint! What have I told you about doing that?”

 

Clint slides out of the duct and drops to the floor, his eyes immediately finding Steve.

"Radioactive spider?" he says, incredulous, fluttering a dismissive hand in Bruce's direction.

"Hello to you, too, Barton," Tony says peevishly.

"How the hell did he get near a radioactive spider?" Clint demands.

Steve shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. It was in the Tower.”

“It was in the _Tower_? How the hell— JARVIS didn't—”

“I do not scan for radioactivity at all times,” JARVIS replies, just a _little_ defensively. “It would unnecessarily tax my resources considering how frequently radioactivity is involved in the various experiments which go on, and not always in the labs.” Somehow JARVIS manages to direct the significance of that statement at Tony.

“It's my tower!” Tony says. “I can do my experiments wherever the hell I want!”

“Like the breakfast table,” Clint says and then without waiting for an answer: “Okay, then I guess my follow up question is: _who the hell irradiates spiders?_ ”

“You mean aside from OsCorp?” Tony says. “That'd be, oh, I dunno, help me out here, JARVIS.”

“No one, sir,” JARVIS replies and sounds as pissed off about it as Tony does.

“Wait,” Clint says, his head rearing back, “so he picked this thing up on his _field trip?_ ”

“Ding ding ding! Give the man a prize!” Tony calls, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“How the _hell—_ ”

“We don't know that for sure,” Steve cuts in, insistent. “We have no proof.”

“It's called circumstantial evidence, sweetheart.” The endearment sounds more like an insult.

“Which is inadmissible. _”_

“If we were in a court, which, hey, look at that, we're _not_. We're in _my_ house—”

“ _Our_ house.”

“—and I don't happen to care whether it's inadmissible or not, someone at OsCorp is responsible for Peter bringing a _radioactive spider_ home with him and I'm going to find out who and then I'm going to gleefully run their lives into the ground because a _radio fucking active spider_ bit my son!”

“ _Our_ son,” Steve says, raising his voice. “Peter's _our_ son, Tony, and I'd appreciate it if you would stop making backhanded implications that I'm not reacting appropriately. I'm as angry as you are, but that's not going to do us any damn good right now.”

The lab is perfectly silent in the wake of his outburst. Bruce and Clint look like they'd like to up and vanish, but Tony's standing with his feet spread, his chin tilted defiantly upward. “Everyone in here agrees with you,” Steve says, waving a hand around at them. Then, very carefully, he adds, “Don't you want to focus on Peter for now? Until we're sure he's okay? When we've done that, I will gladly help you make whoever's responsible pay. But only once we know Peter's going to be all right.”

Tony eventually gives a jerky nod and his hand skitters over the arc reactor, barely visible through his shirt. It's an unconscious motion that Pepper says started after Tony was betrayed by Obadiah Stane and has since morphed to cover any situation where Tony feels unsettled. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “All right.” Then he scrubs his hands over his face and points a finger at Bruce, visibly pulling himself back together. “Stop chit chatting and get back to work,” he says peevishly and Bruce rolls his eyes, but turns back to his notes.

"What are you testing for?" Clint asks, and reaches out for one of the microscopes.

"Don't touch," Bruce orders, giving him a sharp look and Clint pulls his hands back, flashing his palms. After that, he retreats to where Steve's sitting, hopping up on the lab table next to him and swinging his feet. "We're testing for everything," Bruce answers, once he's far enough away.

"Everything?" Clint echoes. "Ambitious."

But something is happening in the microscope Bruce is looking into apparently, because he says, voice suddenly tense, "Tony. Come look at this."

Steve feels his stomach give a slow roll of unease.

Clint nudges Steve's knee with the toes of his right foot and looks him in the eye, says, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Steve says, tearing his gaze away from Tony pressing his face to the microscope. "I guess. I mean. I don't know. Radioactive, that's...bad. Really bad, right? Bruce doesn't think the bite is related to Peter being sick, or dangerous, but..." He sighs. "I'm just worried."

"That's only natural," Clint says. "You've got the Science Wonder Twins over here feeding you your information, that can't be easy."

Steve's mouth curls slightly. "No," he says, "You're right." He glances back over at Tony and his husband is muttering something to Bruce in a low, fast voice, his gaze intense.

Steve swallows. He doesn't want to be here anymore, not when they're like this. He stands abruptly and Clint's eyebrows go up with him. "I'm going to go check on Peter."

Neither Bruce nor Tony looks up or even acknowledges he's said anything. He goes.

Clint follows at his heels, hands in his pockets, but his gait matching Steve's long, hurried strides. "I'm sure it's nothing, Steve," he says, his voice low. “You know how they get when ' _Science!_ '” He waggles his hands and Steve smiles, despite his jangling nerves.

The relief is temporary. He just needs to see Peter's face, reassure himself that he's doing okay and then he'll go to the gym, get out some of this restless energy.

He's barely aware of Clint still following him onto their floor as he crosses the living room and then carefully eases the door to his and Tony's bedroom open. A blade of light cuts over the corner of the bed and out of the corner of his eye, he sees something move. He lashes out, but the intruder just leaps nimbly back out of reach and a second later he hears a familiar voice say, "Steve. Steve, it's me. Natasha."

His heart is pounding, the blood rushing in his ears and throbbing against the wound on his forehead when the lights of the city frame her curves and he breathes, "Dammit, Natasha."

"I'm sorry," she says, holding out an apologetic hand. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Then Peter's voice, small and raspy, comes from the bed and he forgets all about her. "Dad? Aunt Nat?"

The lights come up ever-so-slightly, not enough to affect Steve's night vision, but enough to allow him to see Peter, curled up on the bed, almost disappearing into the heaps of bedding. "I'm here, Peter," he says and feels the tightness in his chest ease a little when he looks into Peter's face and finds him blinking groggily back at him. He sits on the edge of the mattress and brushes Peter's hair back. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, peachy," Peter rasps, smiling wanly. "Never better."

Steve spots the glass on the bedside table, still almost half full. "Thirsty?"

"Umm...a little."

A pale, slender hand drops a bendy straw into the glass and Steve shoots a grateful glance over his shoulder as Natasha slides back to join Clint near the door. "Here, have a few sips," Steve says, holding it so the straw is in reach.

Peter takes a few drags of the juice and then drops his head again, blinks growing longer and slower. "'m itchy, Dad," he mumbles and Steve reaches for Peter's hand, wanting to get a look at the bite himself.

"I know you are, kiddo." He sets the glass back on the bedside table and says, “Twenty-five percent on the lights, please, JARVIS.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS replies and the lights brighten. And that's when Steve realizes that Peter's not just resting his other hand at his neck, but he's scratching lazily at the skin. "Peter?" he says, and covers Peter's hand with his own.

"Sorry," he mumbles, his fingers still scratching, even under the pressure of Steve's hand. “Itches really bad, Dad.” Steve feels his stomach drop.

"JARVIS, lights," he orders and the lights jump to full. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust and then he can see a splotchy red pattern crawling up Peter's neck from under his shirt and down his left arm, brightest around the bite on his hand. There are thin hatch-mark scratches beading with blood at intervals all the way up to the back of Peter's neck.

Fear cascades up Steve's spine, icy cold.

“Ho— Shit,” Clint mutters, muffled, and Steve looks back over his shoulder to see him with his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide, the lines tight on his face. Natasha's expression is flat, her mouth drawn into a thin, strained line and Steve's chest pulls excruciatingly tight, seeing his reaction confirmed in theirs.

"Mister Stark and Doctor Banner are on their way, sir," JARVIS says tersely.

Steve takes both of Peter's hands in his, trying to ignore the churning of his stomach, and draws them away from his body. “Peter, you need to stop.”

Peter scowls at him, trying to jerk his hands free. “Dad, let go.”

“You're drawing blood, Peter,” Steve says and Tony comes flying through the door, his eyes wild. Bruce dashes in behind him, disheveled and panting

"What is it? Peter? What happened?" Tony demands, rapid-fire.

  
“It's getting worse,” Steve says, but Tony's sharp eyes have already found the spreading rash. He swallows, the tendon in his jaw pulsing.

"Oh," Bruce says softly and takes a shaky little breath.

Definitely not good then.

Tony grabs Bruce's arm and the two of them retreat to the far corner by the window and start whispering furiously back and forth, Tony's gestures wild and just this side of hysterical.

“Dad, come _on_ ,” Peter growls, and tugs hard enough that his hands nearly slip free of Steve's grasp. “It's driving me _crazy,_ let go!”

A hand settles on Steve's shoulder and Natasha reaches over him, holding out Peter's glass of juice, refilled, mostly with ice. “Hold it against the rash, it will help with the itching.”

She curls her fingers around Steve's shoulder and he loosens his grip on Peter's hands, allowing him to reach for the glass. Peter sighs when the side of the glass touches his inflamed skin. “Thanks, Aunt Nat,” he breathes.

She allows a small smile in return and leans forward, kissing his forehead. “Drink.”

Peter presses the glass to his throat, his eyes closing for a second before he catches the straw in his mouth. Steve takes his free hand in his own and runs the pads of his fingers over the smooth skin covering the small bones of his hand. Peter's got pianist's hands—slender, but strong and deft like Tony's. They'd been as long as the first knuckle of Steve's thumb when Peter was born, unbelievably tiny and silky to the touch. They're rougher now, bigger, but they still fit inside his palm, easy. Peter's nowhere near done growing so it's possible one day that won't be true anymore.

He curls his hand around Peter's, trying to memorize the way it feels tucked inside his. Steve's going to miss this. Peter already refuses to hold his hand where anyone might see and Steve knows it won't be long before he'll stop allowing it all together. He's stroking the coarse hairs on the back of Peter's wrist, the ones that grow thicker and darker every day it seems like, when Peter nudges his arm with the glass. A flush creeps up Steve's neck.

“I can hear you brooding, Dad,” Peter says.

“I'm not,” Steve protests. “I'm just—”

“Trying to find the meaning of the universe in my arm hair?”  
  
Steve huffs and rolls his eyes. He's been in the practice of expressing himself, plainly as he can, ever since he woke up and found out all the chances he'd missed out on because he'd believed there'd be time later. He's been determined to never stand in his own way like that again, but somehow Tony's flippancy in the face of vulnerability has rubbed off on Peter instead. So Peter squirms when Steve looks him in the eye and says, “Just trying to remember how this feels. I know you're not stand for it much longer. I'm going to miss things like this.”

“What, me being sick as a dog?” Peter says, his eyes dropping and bouncing off of their entwined hands.

Steve doesn't let him get away with the deflection, just like he doesn't let Tony. “No. Holding your hand.” Peter colors a little and Steve leans forward and kisses his forehead, feels a pang of worry at how hot his skin is. “I love you, Pete, always have and I always will. Doesn't make it easier, watching you outgrow me.”

Peter looks up at him through his eyelashes, reproving. He looks exactly like Tony when he does that. “Don't be stupid, Dad. I'm never gonna outgrow you.” He loops his arms around Steve's neck and for a second, nothing else matters.

“You know how much your dad and I love you, don't you, Peter?” he asks, quiet.

Peter snorts and squeezes him a little bit tighter. “Dad, there are a lot of things I have doubts about, but that is _never_ going to be one of them.”

Then a bolt of lightning cracks the dark sky outside, blinding Steve, and thunder rattles the glass in spite of all Tony's careful structural considerations.

“Guess who,” Clint drawls.

Some residual crackles of lightning and thunder grumble outside the window and Tony growls, “Damn drama queen.”

Clint makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a hacking cough at the absolute irony in that statement, but Tony just points a finger at him without bothering to look and snaps, “Are you sick? Thinking about getting sick? Get out.”

Clint waves his hands, points at his throat and chokes, “Saliva—breathed it—”

“Yeah, I don't care,” Tony says and pulls open the bedroom door. He opens his mouth, his face black as the clouds outside the window, but before he can say a word, Thor comes through the door and sweeps him into a hug. “Brother!” he exclaims and Tony makes a breathless noise of indignation, his toes almost a foot off the ground. Thor sets him down a little too hard and the next noise Tony makes is pained, his knees almost buckling. He gets a white-knuckled grip around Thor's arm and Thor grips his arms back, his face twisting into an expression of sincerest concern. “Heimdall summoned me to the bridge, he said young Peter has been overtaken by some affliction?”

“What have I told you about the manhandling?” Tony demands, grimacing and rubbing at his knee. “Jesus, I think you broke something.”

Thor immediately looks contrite, reaching to touch Tony's shoulder, his grip more ginger and his gaze focused on the hand Tony has at his knee. “I apologize, I was distressed to hear of Peter's illness and I have not remembered myself. Do you need to be seated?”

Tony gives him a dirty look, but lays off the rubbing and mutters, “No, no,” and the rest drops under his breath, too low to understand.

Thor glances around the room, his face brightening when he sees Clint, Natasha, and Bruce. “Sister!” he says warmly, moving forward to grasp Natasha's elbows. He kisses her cheek and she smiles, leans up on her tiptoes to kiss both of his. “It has been too long.”  
  
“It has,” she agrees and he releases her to drag Clint and Bruce into a hug.

“Brothers.” Clint rolls his eyes, patting Thor's back as his face is mashed into the demi-god's chest plate and Bruce flushes, patting Thor's elbow gingerly.

“Good to see you, too, Thor,” he says.

Then Thor relinquishes his grip on them as well and his gaze moves to the bed and all of the merriness in his face fades away. Steve stands to face him, reluctantly giving up his hold on Peter's hand and Thor strides forward, drawing him into a rib-crushing hug. Steve can't help but smile, hugging back. “Hey, Thor. We've missed you around here.”

“And I you,” Thor says. “Things in Asgard have been, well... _strained,_ shall we say.” He waves his hand before Steve can ask and says, “But I have not come to speak of my troubles.” Thor looks to Peter, a smile warming his features again and says, “What mischief have you been making, Peter?”  
  
“Me?” Peter says, mock-innocent. “Mischief? Never.”

Thor laughs and then sits on the edge of the bed, leaning toward Peter, who tilts his head forward to listen, a grin creeping across his face as Thor addresses him in conspiratorial tones.

“Steve,” Bruce says and when he turns to look, Bruce tips his head toward the door. Everyone is looking at him. Well, everyone but Tony; he's staring at Peter, one hand wrapped white-knuckled around his phone, his chest moving like he can't quite remember how to breathe.

Steve nods and heads for the door. "Tony," he says and Tony starts, swallows. He makes a beeline for Steve's side, matching him step-for-step as they move out into the living room.  
  
"Okay," he says, "so you know how I said I wasn't freaking out? That? Was a lie. I am absolutely freaking the fuck out. I'm losing it, Steve. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I had it to begin with. I am going off the reservation here."  
  
Steve wants to comfort him, but this is Tony's area, he's the one who can fix whatever's wrong, if it can be fixed. And the fact that Tony's starting to panic makes Steve's stomach roll with dread.  
  
They all sit down in the living room, Tony excepted as he starts pacing again, waving his hands. "Okay, this is what we know," he tells them. "Around 1300 on Friday, Peter was bitten by a potentially radioactive spider—JARVIS and I are looking to confirm that— But I'm getting off-topic. So Saturday, earlier today, I guess, Jesus, has it really only—” Tony shakes his head. “Anyway, Peter doesn't wake up until we go in and  _make him_ . He takes a little while to come out of it, but he eats, everything seems fine. So Steve 'n me, we shrug it off, right? He does his homework, goes to bed, and  _two hours later,_ he's puking his guts up. Okay, so maybe he's got the flu. We can deal with puking. It's happened before, it'll happen again, whatever. He's a teenager. Bruce comes to check on him, does an exam and then scampers off to test him for the flu. 

But it's  _not_ the flu, no, of  _course_ it isn't. Because that would just be too easy.” Tony growls and scrubs his hands over his face, presses his thumb and fingers into the corners of his eyes. “It's impossible.  _Literally_ impossible, but there's ten percent  _more_ of the toxin in his blood, not to mention the fact that his negligible radiation levels are  _up._ That's right, it's defying the laws of physics and going  _up._ I ask you,  _what the actual fuck_ . And now, now, on top of all of that, this fucking rash!”

Steve can feel his shoulders hunching the way they do when he's feeling especially uncertain. “Is Peter going to...” He flounders for a minute, groping for the right words and trying desperately not to think one specific word in particular. Just knowing it's  _there_ makes his gut curl with shame.

Bruce takes pity on him eventually and says, “No, no. Um.” He adjusts his glasses and shifts, then slides the tips of his fingers under the frames to rub at his eyes. “Well, I'm reasonably sure he won't end up like...like me. Not that that's particularly reassuring at this point since I would have told you eight hours ago that it was impossible for residual radiation to go up, but this isn't how it was—it's not what it was like for me. So I don't think that's what's happening here.”

A wave of guilt washes through Steve as the knot in his stomach unfurls just a little bit.

“That's good though, right?” Clint says. “Couldn't he just be sick? Flushing his system or whatever?”

Bruce tips his head to the side in consideration. “It's possible. Really, anything is possible at this point. Residual radiation doesn't increase. It just  _doesn't_ . I don't even know what to do with that information.” He sighs. “The problem with this kind of experimentation is that you don't really know what's going to happen until it happens. There are too many variables.”

“Like the fact that he's half super-soldier,” Tony puts in. “Every single one of their test subjects died within minutes. I'd bet the Iron Man suit the only thing that kept Peter alive was your DNA, Steve.”

That thought should be comforting, but it isn't. It somehow makes Steve feel even worse.

“But he _is_ alive,” Clint says. “So that's good right?”

Bruce twists his hands. “I don't know. I really wish I could say, but I just don't know. I mean, obviously it's good right now, but...”

“God,” Tony says, “This is the _worst._ ”

“What can we do?” Natasha asks. “Do you want Clint and I to go into OsCorp? Get another specimen? Files?”

“No, no,” Tony mutters, “I've got an RSS feed that updates along with their servers. I know what they know. And a specimen wouldn't do us any good even if they had one.”

Clint glances over at Natasha and says, “But if we go do a little snooping, we might be able to find something that implicates this guy, this Sibbel guy. Maybe some notes about what the fuck he was thinking.”

Bruce fiddles with his glasses, his eyes darting down and back up again. “That might be a good idea at this point,” he says quietly. He lifts his shoulders. “Who knows what they might be able to find.”

“Fine,” Steve says and drops his head, putting the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Do it. Don't get caught.”

“No, sir,” Clint says.

Steve grinds his palms into his eyes until light bursts behind the lids, hating how helpless he feels, hating the uncomfortable silence pressing in around him when Thor's voice suddenly rises, alarmed, followed by the  _pop-crash_ of a glass hitting the floor in the bedroom. Everyone moves at once, like this is a drill they've been practicing for.

Steve makes it to the door first, but only because his reflexes are super-soldier fast—Tony's right on his heels, the other three bearing down on top of him.

The first thing Steve sees when he bursts into the room is Thor's face, blown wide with panic. “I did nothing!” he yells and backs away from the bed looking horror-struck. That's when Steve's eyes fall on Peter and his stomach tears out through his bellybutton.

 

Peter's eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, his right hand hanging limp down the side of the bed and his left making small grasping gestures at his stomach. His head is hanging at a slight angle, moving in a triangular shape like he's half-asleep and trying to keep himself awake. But he's not. He's not—there. He's not  _ Peter,  _ and the fear prickles on Steve's skin like a living thing, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. His knees turn to jelly.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says and Steve's never heard his voice, thin and wavering, like that before.

“Calm down,” Bruce orders, moving forward to sit on the bed. “He's fine. It's just a seizure.” He looks directly at Peter and says, “You're probably scared, Peter, but it's okay. You're okay.”

“ _ Just a seizure _ ,” Tony repeats, sounding strangled.

“He was  _ well _ ,” Thor insists, “We were talking of Gwen Stacy and—the glass slipped from his fingers—he would not  _ respond—” _

“ Thor, it's okay,” Bruce says, twisting to look at him. He's not touching Peter, not doing anything to fix this—this  _ seizure—why isn't he doing anything? _ “You didn't do anything wrong. This isn't your fault.”

Thor nods, but his throat works up and down, his distress evident.

“ _ Do something, Banner _ ,” Steve hears himself demand, and geez, what's wrong with him he hasn't called Bruce by his surname in  _ years. _

Bruce's gaze turns to him, still maddeningly patient. “There's nothing  _ to _ do, Steve. Peter's okay. I know it's pretty scary to see, but he's not thrashing so he's not a danger to himself. He'll come out of it.”

“Okay, that's it,” Tony says, “after this we're taking him down to the medbay. We need to be able to hook him up and see what's going on if we have any chance of dealing with it.”

“I think that would be best,” Bruce agrees.

Then Peter's grasping left hand goes limp, his head dipping forward like he's falling asleep. Bruce turns and catches him, keeps him from slumping forward with a hand cupped around the side of his neck. “Peter?” he says gently. “Can you squeeze my fingers?” Peter must do it because Bruce smiles and says, “Good, good. You're probably a little overwhelmed right now, so I'm not going to ask you any questions. What you just experienced was a partial seizure. It's not a good sign combined with your other symptoms, but the seizure itself isn't going to hurt you. It won't affect your brain and it's not a sign of brain damage either, so don't worry about that, all right?”

“What's happening to me?” Peter asks in a small voice and Steve presses a hand down over his mouth.

“I don't know, Peter,” Bruce tells him honestly. “Your dad and I are doing our best to figure it out though.”

~

 

Tony's heart is beating like it can't quite remember what a steady rhythm is, but it can figure it out if it tries hard enough. It's something that he should probably be more concerned about, except Peter's just had a seizure and, god, why is this happening to his son,  _ why? _ He's been protecting Peter from shit like this for years, working his ass off to keep him out of the line of fire of the absolute insanity that is the superhero business and it's a field trip to  _ OsCorp  _ of all places that he should have been worried about? It just isn't  _ fair _ .

  
Tony swallows hard as Steve leans down next to the bed to gather Peter up in his arms, a sharp stabbing sensation going through him right behind the arc reactor when Peter wraps his arms around Steve's neck, his ankles hooking around the back of Steve's thighs, clinging the way he used to when he was still young enough to be getting carried around. It makes him look excruciatingly vulnerable.

Steve adjusts his grip, because Peter's a lot bigger than he used to be and then presses his nose into the skin behind Peter's ear, breathing deep and Tony's heart staggers hard. “You okay, buddy?” Steve asks, quiet, and Peter nods once, his head resting heavily on Steve's shoulder.

“Tired,” he mumbles.

“Let's go get him settled,” Tony says and clears his throat when his voice breaks a little at the end.

Thor, Clint, and Natasha accompany them down to the medbay and Tony's torn between gratitude and irritation. It's not like they can do anything, but they are for all intents and purposes Peter's aunt and uncles so it's not like they're sticking around out of obligation or something. They're worried too and it would be a pretty dickish thing to do, trying to kick them out.

Tony follows close behind Steve, the fingers of his right hand hooked into the waistband of Steve's pants so he can keep his eyes on Peter without having to pay attention to where he's going. Peter blinks blearily at him a few times and then smiles and Tony loses the ability to breathe.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says when the short in his brain repairs itself. Even sick as a dog, his kid's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Peter mumbles something in return, too quiet and too mangled to understand, his eyes drooping shut. Tony never got the watching people sleep thing, not until Peter. Now he gets it, hell, he watches Peter sleep at least once a week, sometimes when he can't sleep himself, sometimes after a mission, sometimes just because he can. It crams him full of all these emotions, things he has no idea what to do with, but it's  _ good _ in a way, cathartic, and he just goes and watches Peter, lets it all wash over him.

Peter barely reacts when Steve eases him into the bed, brushing his hair back and pulling the covers up. He twitches a little when Bruce slides an IV into his hand, but he doesn't react at all to the electrode cap being eased onto his head, or the EKG electrodes stuck to his chest and Tony would be freaking out except he's very clearly fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly.

“The seizure on top of the fatigue he was already experiencing will have wiped him out,” Bruce says. “He'll probably sleep for quite awhile.”

“Good,” Tony replies, “We have a lot of work to do.”

~

 

Bruce rolled the fine focus knob ever so slightly, bringing the contents of the slide into sharper relief. Tony had a very nice electron microscope, one that every university Bruce knew of would pay dearly to possess, but for some things he preferred a slightly more traditional approach.

Besides, at the moment the EM was processing a whole batch of samples under JARVIS' direction, so it wasn't available.

His lips moved as he counted each type of cell, his head lifting at the end of each cycle to look at the paper where he was taking notes. Or, well, the StarkPad. Close enough. It even had lines on it and Tony had designed a stylus that looked like a ballpoint pen just for him.

And, probably, because it amused him to see other people steal the pen and try to write on regular paper.

Bruce had learned which battles to fight and which ones to let go and it actually was pretty amusing anyway.

He could have written his notes without looking away, but his eyes needed the break from the harsh light of the scope and it gave him a chance to glance at Tony.

It wasn't a reassuring picture, but that was all the more reason to keep doing it. There would come a point—probably in the not too distant future—when Tony was doing himself more harm than Peter good and would have to be banished from the lab. Bruce didn't expect that to be easy, but it would be necessary all the same.

Already the chatter that normally ran as soundtrack to their working together in the lab—a lab, any lab—had ground to a halt. Tony was, for his standard values of activity, unnaturally still.

Bruce extended his break and looked over his shoulder to follow Tony's gaze, seeing it was stuck on Peter in the clear-walled observation room at one end of the lab. It could be locked down with negative pressure to make it a quarantine, but things weren't quite that dire, yet.

Thank God, because Bruce did not relish the idea of having to talk Tony into a hazmat suit just to get close to his son.

The bitchfit that would follow about how it was un-fucking-fair that he had to when Steve didn't and how it his choice anyway if he wanted to expose himself to whatever Peter was giving off, that they shared half the same DNA anyway so how bad could it be? might be enough for Bruce to have to excuse himself to keep from setting them back weeks while the lab was repaired and data recollected.

When Tony started wilfully ignoring scientific principles in favor of doing whatever the hell he wanted, the situation had truly reached critical mass.

Bruce was hoping to avoid that.

The sooner they knew what was going on and therefore the sooner they could stop and/or fix it, the easier that would be to avoid.

That in mind, Bruce wrote down his numbers and went back for another look.

Tony was moving again by the time he'd finished with the slide, had been for a few minutes, though mostly in long pacing steps toward and back across the space between them and the door to the observation room.

At some point he'd picked up a pair of tongs and was tapping out a rhythm on his twitching fingers.

He'd stop at one of the displays they had running, shuffle about the graphs and charts and resize them up and down, lips moving but rarely speaking aloud, make an expression or two of anger, worry, frustration, or all three, glance back at Peter, and begin pacing and tapping again.

Years of practice were all that kept Bruce from kicking him out so he could work in peace. Well, that and the understanding that Tony needed to be doing something—or at least feeling like he was—or he would explode, if not himself, something else.

"Next slide," Bruce said and held out his hand, the sample he was done with held upright between his third and fourth fingers, the second waiting to pinch the new slide against the third. DUM-E obligingly swung it into place, then took the old sample away. They were quite practiced at the exchange now, so Bruce could watch Tony the whole time.

Tony must have felt his stare because he turned and flashed a grin, the quick, automatic kind he usually reserves for media, elected officials, and Fury—when he wants to be especially annoying.

"So what do are we looking at so far?" he says, plopping down on a stool, giving it a spin to adjust the height, and then... sighing, his shoulders dropping as he wipes a hand over his face.

He's been up for nearly thirty-six hours by Bruce's count and every second of that is written in his posture and his face. He scoots the stool across the floor, but without his usual verve, instead making it look like he can't find the energy to stand upright anymore and walk. How he's been managing to this point is something of a mystery to Bruce.

Not a surprise, he's seen it and worse before, but still a mystery.

He stops at Bruce's side, crooks an elbow and uses it as a prop for his head, but, again, without the usual playfulness. His eyes are hooded, his mouth a grim line.

He would have looked better if he was the one in the quarantine room and he had neither Peter's youth nor his enhanced DNA.

Bruce took a moment to smile and clasp Tony's shoulder. "Peter's in the best possible hands there are. We'll fix this," he said.

Tony tried to smile back, but didn't quite make it, his lips doing a weird sort of twitch instead.

He gave up quickly, dropping his head onto folded arms and inhaling and exhaling deeply three times.

Then he lifted his head again until he could rest his chin on his forearms and nodded at the microscope with a quick jerk. "What've we got?"

Bruce brought a hand up to scratch at his head, the other tapping his notes and drawing the command to have them assimilated into the rest of the data. When the confirmation was flashed, he sent it to the big screen in front of them and minimized the others that had been there.

Tony's bloodshot eyes scanned the information, taking it in and, Bruce was hoping, seeing something other than what he was.

Tony's brows furrowed, though, and he said, "Wait, what?"

Damn.

Tony looked at him and Bruce realized he'd said that aloud. Oops.

"So it's not just me?" Tony said. "This isn't really my area of expertise—" And Bruce couldn't resist the snort, because 'not my area of expertise' with Tony was more along the lines of 'I've read more about it than most people employed in the field and might as well have a degree, but I just haven't taken the time to actually get the paper diploma'. "—but shouldn't the white cell counts be going _down?_ "

He glanced at Bruce again and sat up. "I mean, with the radiation and all..." His words trailed off and then he started gesturing to manipulate the displays and take it all in. Bruce wished him more success than he'd had, but wasn't counting on it.

"Well, in typical cases of radiation exposure and poisoning, yes, that would be the case."

Tony flinched at the words "radiation exposure and poisoning" but that was, technically, what they were looking at.

Except it wasn't going the way it should.

That was both good and bad news.

"Well this was definitely not a typical case," Tony muttered. "Fucking OsCorp." His voice went up in volume as he continued, his hands moving faster and faster as he built up steam. "Why spiders anyway? Who the hell needs radioactive spiders? Even if this was their end goal, to spread some kind of radioactive venom that increased in the human body, why the hell would you choose spiders? No one voluntarily sits there and lets a spider bite them. Dogs or cats would be much more effective. People will let them do all kinds of shit that would grant exposure. Spiders though, people just kill. Or ignore. But even when they kill it's not by touching them directly, it's with a ten foot pole or a vacuum cleaner or spray. No chance of exposure. Fucking _idiots,"_ he snarled and stabbed at the screen's off button, blanking it with a vengeance.

His head dropped down again, caught by his upraised hands, the fingers tunneling into his already messy hair. He stared at the tabletop, eyes moving back and forth like he was reading something in the surface there.

This was one of the rare times Bruce wished Tony weren't so goddamned brilliant.

And that he, Bruce, believed in lying to the family of a patient.

It would be nice to say he had some ideas of what was going on and that Tony and Steve shouldn't worry, that Peter was going through a rough patch and that it might get worse before it got better, but that it _would_ get better.

He could actually do that with Steve, whose brain had been enhanced by the serum, true, but who hadn't studied medicine like Bruce and Tony. Besides, Steve still liked to believe that people were being honest, especially people he knew he could trust, and so he'd take that as gospel and nod and relax a little bit because everything was under control.

Tony, though, there was no way to bullshit Tony short of locking him out of this lab and feeding him false information in another one.

Even then, he'd still probably figure it out and hack into the system and force JARVIS to give him the real data and then he'd stop trusting Bruce and things would get _really_ bad, because you could do a lot of things that Tony would forgive, but lying and manipulation were not among them.

No, a worried Tony working in cooperation was much better than a worried and bitter Tony working in opposition.

Tony shifted the weight of his head to one hand, the fingers of the other digging into his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighed, heavily, and said, "Okay, so white blood cells going up, toxins and radiation going up..." He frowned and lifted his head, pressing his fist into his mouth and drumming his fingers on his skull. "He's fighting it, or, well, trying to," he said, blinking and tilting his head to the side further.

Bruce hated to be the voice of reason, but someone had to be. "Fighting what?" he asked. "The radiation? The venom? Both? And how? And, even if he is fighting it, why is it going _up?"_

That was the biggest conundrum. Trying to fight off the foreign substances in his body was perfectly normal. Succeeding as the raised white cell count implied, was unusual, but Peter's DNA wasn't exactly normal to begin with.

But how the _hell_ was the concentration of toxin and level of radiation increasing?

"Virus."

Tony blinked again and sat up straight, turning to look at Bruce. _"Virus,"_ he repeated.

"Uhhh, nooo? It's not a virus, Tony. First of all, that makes even less sense, and second of all, there's nothing like that in his blood."

Bruce would know, having spent hours looking at it under all levels and types of magnification.

"Nonono, not, like—" Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Not like an _actual_ virus, I'm not saying that. But the behavior is viral in nature."

Bruce frowned.

"It's... It's using Peter's body to replicate, or, well, manufacture, the point is the same. The extra toxins and radioactive particles aren't coming in from an outside source and they're sure as hell not already there just waiting to be activated, so something must be producing them."

"Like a virus," Bruce said. And it was still crazy, because biology didn't work that way, but, well, Bruce had seen whole encyclopedias worth of things biology didn't do come to horrifying life since his own experience turning science on its ear.

Tony's expression was as animated as Bruce had seen it in days—in a good way, not in a destructive way—and there was actually something like hope in his eyes.

Small, a spark more than an actual flicker, but there all the same.

Bruce wasn't about to let it die now.

"Okay," he said, shifting on his stool to wake his ass up from the numbness that had settled in some time ago. "Like a virus. Using Peter's own cells to somehow produce the venom and make it radioactive." He inhaled, held it, and blew the breath out slowly.

"I don't know if you can keep calling them idiots," he said almost absently as he started making notes on his Pad.

Tony frowned and jerked back at that. "What? Why the hell not?"

Bruce gestured with his stylus. "They may very well have birthed an entirely new branch of science here, Tony. They're irresponsible in how they're using it, but this is not the fruit of idiocy."

Tony's lip curled and his eyes narrowed and he almost snarled, but he finally conceded, "Okay, fine." He looked over and said, with complete seriousness, "What about fucktards? Can I call them fucktards?"

Bruce had to swallow the snort. "That's not very politically correct—"

"Flopping dickweasels it is." His attention shifted back to the screens and he squinted at one, flipping through until it came up.

"JARVIS, did we run any DNA tests?" Tony asked.

Bruce's eyes snapped up to Tony's face at that request.

"We have not, sir," JARVIS said, sounding as wary as Bruce felt.

"Do that."

His eyes came down to meet Bruce's. "Let me know as soon as it's done."

"Of course, sir," JARVIS said.

Tony's gaze dropped to the tabletop where his fingers were drumming and then rose to look at the observation room where Peter slept on.

"I need coffee," he said. "Do you want coffee? Tea? Anything?"

Bruce grabbed his mug and handed it over. "I could use a refill, yeah. Green, please. Nothing added."

Tony nodded and vanished, not quite moving fast enough to be termed a run, but definitely not a leisurely stroll either.

Bruce watched him go, then rubbed at his eyes and turned back to his Pad.

~

 

Peter sleeps, still and silent as the dead, and Steve is grateful for the machine tracking the beat of his heart, tracing it on the monitor beside his bed. There's a glass wall between them and the lab where Bruce and Tony are working—this room can be sealed if necessary and Steve can't bring himself to think about why Tony chose it.

Steve manages to sit watching Peter for nearly an hour before he numbs to the environment and succumbs to boredom. Watching Tony isn't much better, even though he's more active, alternating between sitting stiffly and stabbing at screens with his fingers and twitching around amidst the tables, checking pieces of equipment, flipping through slides, and looming over Bruce's shoulder before starting the cycle over. Steve feels pretty useless, like he did during the war when he was touring with the girls instead of out fighting with the rest. He isn't okay with sitting on the sidelines.

Somehow the time still slips away and Steve has no idea how long he's been sitting there until JARVIS announces in a murmur, “It is nine AM Mister Rogers.”

Steve blinks and rubs a hand over his face. “Really? Geez. Uh. Okay, thanks.” He sits for a second longer, feeling how his body isn't tired, but his mind is exhausted, and how, now that he knows what time it is, the hunger claws at his stomach. He needs to eat. Tony had barely picked at what he'd made the night before, so he _definitely_ needs something. Steve glances through the glass wall and sees Tony staring intently down at a StarkPad. He's got a pen in his hand that he's whipping back and forth so fast it's practically a blur, but now that Steve's looking, he can see the effort he's putting into that mindless gesture. Breakfast then.

He glances at Peter, still out like a light. The rash has spread so it can be seen on every inch of Peter's exposed skin, but otherwise things haven't changed. He hasn't had another seizure, much to Steve's intense relief.

He stands and stretches stiff muscles and then leans over Peter, brushing back limp, greasy hair from his forehead to press a kiss there. “I love you, Peter,” he says quietly.

Bruce looks up when he slips into the lab, but Tony's working furiously with a StarkPad and doesn't so much as falter at his entrance.

Steve is putting his hand over Tony's to get his attention when Thor comes through the door carrying two enormous serving trays, each loaded with food. Heaps of eggs, piles of bacon and sausage, towers of toast and pancakes, plus an entire stick of butter and several jars of syrup and jelly. Jane peeks out from behind him, smiling tentatively and carrying a column of plates with a jug of coffee balanced on top and a bag of cutlery hooked around her wrist. "Hey," she says breathlessly. "You guys hungry?"  
  
"Does this look like a cafeteria?" Tony demands and Steve prods him pointedly in the shoulder.   
  
"My heroes," Bruce says and abandons his microscope, breathing in deeply. "I'm starved. Is that coffee Colombian?"  
  
"Costa Rican," Thor says. "It is a powerful brew."  
  
"Excellent," Bruce murmurs and helps divest Jane of her load, smiling pleasantly despite his obvious weariness. "How are you?" he asks and Steve looks to Thor.  
  
"Thank you," he says. "We really needed this."  
  
Thor smiles and claps his shoulder. "I would choose to be nowhere else."  
  
He sets the trays down and Tony huffs at Steve. "This is a lab. Eating in here is a terrible idea."  
  
"And yet you do it all the time," Bruce calls over, before going right back into his conversation with Jane.  
  
"You haven't eaten for almost thirty-six hours, Tony," Steve tells him and Tony looks mildly surprised to hear that.  
  
"Thirty-six, really?"  
  
"JARVIS?"  
  
"Mister Rogers is correct, sir," JARVIS says. "You have been working very diligently and I suspect you would have succumbed to dehydration if not for Doctor Banner continually supplying you with coffee, sir."  
  
"Fine, fine, I'll eat something," Tony grumbles, but before he can get up, Steve's blocking his way off of his stool and catching his lips in a kiss. "Mmm," Tony hums, irritability melting away, and when Steve tries to pull back, Tony catches him by the hips and drags him forward again. "No, c'mere," he mutters into Steve's mouth. "This's way better than breakfast."  
  
"Better if you didn't taste like stale coffee," Steve murmurs in reply and smirks.  
  
Tony kisses him quiet, then till heat is creeping up the back of his skull before telling him between light pecks, "You don't taste too sweet either, Princess."  
  
That's when someone clears their throat.  
  
A flush races up the back of Steve's neck and Clint drawls, "Do I get a good morning kiss, too, Princess?"  
  
"Pucker up, buttercup," Tony retorts, waggling a beckoning finger.

And because neither Tony nor Clint is about to back down, Clint swaggers over and Tony grabs him and throws him into a dip and then plants one right on him. Tony's heaving him to his feet again, Clint saying entirely too casually, “Steve's right, you taste like shit,” when Darcy comes through the door.

“He didn't say I taste like shit, he said I taste like stale coffee,” Tony says primly. “Big difference. Unless you're getting your coffee at Starbucks, I guess, then, yeah, it's probably both.”

Darcy stops in her tracks, throws up her hands and says, “ _Whoa._ Hang on a second, did Clint finally talk you guys into the foursome?”

“Some of us are trying to eat,” Bruce points out.

“Why did I marry you again?” Steve asks of the room at large, sighing.

“Because I'm the bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. The—”

“Most obnoxious man on earth,” Natasha cuts in, rolling her eyes. “I don't know how any of us tolerate you. Let alone Steve, having to put up with you _constantly_.”

“I was serious about the foursome,” Darcy says through a mouthful of pancake, and there's whipped cream daubed at the corner of her mouth. Steve can't remember seeing a can, but there it is.

Clint rolls his eyes and Steve has to smother a smile because he looks just like Natasha when he does that. “Tony and Steve don't want to have a foursome, Darce.”

Tony shrugs. “I'm down,” he says and starts shoveling chunks of everything onto a plate.

“ _No,”_ Steve says firmly. “It's very flattering, but no.”

Darcy squints at him. “You don't have to participate. If you wanna watch—”

Steve feels himself go tomato red and the grin (plus the crow of delight) Darcy lets free convinces him she's just messing with him. Especially when Clint grins lazily at him, too, and says, “Okay, okay, cut him some slack.”

“I can't help it!” Darcy howls. “His face! It's priceless! How sweet is he? Oh, my god, I'm dying.” She says, flapping her hand at her face. She's so amused she's got tears in her eyes.

And for a little while, the fear takes a backseat.

Tony sits close to him, eating like he may never get the chance again, his thigh warm against Steve's. At one point Clint and Thor are telling the girls a largely exaggerated story when Tony leans into his side and murmurs just below his ear, “I love you, you know.”

Steve feels the warmth of the words all the way to his toes, but he shrugs and turns his head to whisper back, “I know.”

Tony's eyes jump up to his face in surprise. “You're going to leave me hanging?”

Steve pretends to think about it.

“Oh, what an _asshole,”_ Tony says and Steve laughs. He presses a kiss to Tony's mouth and doesn't pull back until Tony's hands have gone slack, the scant remaining contents of his plate sliding to the floor. “I don't have to tell you, Tony,” he murmurs. “You know I love you.”

Tony's eyes drop and he draws the plate up horizontal again, shuffling it in his hands. He gets like this, probably half the time, maybe a little more often, when Steve says the words. Suddenly shy and uncertain. Steve nudges his shoulder with his own and when he looks up, repeats, “I love you.”

Tony's mouth twitches, creeps into a small smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I know.” They look at each other for a long moment before Tony's gaze finally shifts away, toward the glass wall separating them from Peter. All of the happiness drains from his face and he looks older, fiercer. “I wanna hurt them, Steve,” he says, grim. “I mean, I really want to make them _suffer_. I can't stand seeing him like this.”

Steve grimaces. He's angry about what's happened to Peter, too, but violence isn't going to make Peter better. He'd much rather see the people responsible brought to justice. It makes his stomach clench to think that there are still people trying to create a Super Soldier Serum. Steve wonders sometimes if he would have volunteered if he'd known what he knows now—if he had seen what's happened to all the people who tried to recreate what had been done to him. He feels cold when he thinks that Bruce is the _best_ of the attempts and even colder when he thinks about what that could mean for Peter.

“Doesn't it piss you off?” Tony demands.

“Of course it does,” Steve says. “But we can't just 'make them suffer', Tony.”

“Whey the hell not? He did this to our _kid!_ ”

“That's not how it works! That's not how _we_ work.”

~

Peter sleeps and sleeps, and then sleeps some more. The radiation levels creep a little higher, and the venom levels do too, but Peter's temperature stays stable and he doesn't have anymore seizures so both Tony and Steve submit to a few hours sleep, everyone's high emotions leveling out in the light of day. "It's entirely possible the seizure was fever-related," Bruce tells them, looking positive. "The venom and radiation is concerning, but all his other symptoms can be explained by a bad case of the flu. We may have reacted too hastily."  
  
"The rash?" Tony says and Bruce shrugs.  
  
"Also, potentially related to his fever? A heat rash? It's not distinctive so there are a lot of possible causes."  
  
So by the time Peter wakes up early Thursday morning, Tony and Steve have mellowed considerably.   
  
"Hey, there, bud!" Tony says cheerfully, hitching a hip up on the bed and ruffling Peter's hair. Peter blinks bleary eyes and smiles.

“Hi, Dad,” he mumbles.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks, clearly trying to restrain himself from fussing.

Peter thinks for a second. “Okay,” he finally settles on.

Tony watches his face for any signs that Peter's minimizing how he feels, or maybe's misjudging, but he just looks groggy. Tony prods anyway. “Nausea? Itchiness? Headache?”

“Aside from the one you're giving me? No. Just tired. Sore.” Peter's eyes drift around, taking in the glass separating them from the lab, the machines crowded around the bed, and then the electrodes on his chest, the oximeter on his finger. Then he frowns and reaches up to prod gingerly at the cap. “Electrode cap?” he says, looking to Tony and Tony sees it the second Peter remembers, fear leeching into his eyes. “I had a seizure,” he says and Steve breaks, edges up as close as he can to the bed and curls his hand around Peter's.

Tony nods, flicking at the bed clothes. “You did.”

“Was I—was I asleep? Or—”

Tony can't quite stop his wince. He knows what it's like to wake up, unsure if it's sleep or unconsciousness he's waking from and how much time was lost. “Sleep,” he says firmly. “Eighteen hours. You were exhausted.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a weak smirk.

Peter swallows, his eyes taking in the room again. “Eighteen...so. So it's Thursday?”

Tony gives a little nod, tapping the swell in the blanket where Peter's knee is until he remembers the first night and Peter saying it hurt. He yanks back his hand and stuffs it into his lap, swiveling on the stool he's occupying and trying to smother the urge to do something with his hands.

“Ugh,” Peter says, his eyes clenching shut. “Missed my bio exam. And Lit, oh man, Mr. Vick is going to _lose it.”_

 

Steve's eyebrows go up and he glances at Tony. “I think you have a valid excuse, Peter. Bruce will write you a note, I'm sure.”

“Oh, _god,_ no,” Peter says, pulling his hands away from his face. “I told you guys, Mr. Vick has it out for me. He already thinks I'm a spoiled brat. If Uncle Bruce writes me a note he's going to freak out.”

“Wait a second,” Tony says, frowning and sitting up, “This guy has actually _said_ he thinks you're a spoiled brat? He used those words?”

“Well, no,” Peter admits. “What he said was, 'You're a smart-mouthed little punk riding through life on your daddies' capes'. He was just mad because I disagreed with his interpretation of one of the texts. And I told him he was a misogynist.”

“We don't wear capes,” Steve says, frowning.

“Oh, that is just—why the hell didn't you say something?” Tony demands.

“Because I knew you'd flip out. Exactly like you're doing right now.”

“I am not—” Tony says indignantly.

“Yes, you are,” Steve cuts in. “But Peter, if he's harassing you—”

“He's not harassing me, Dad. He just takes it personally when a fifteen-year-old kid tells him there are alternate interpretations and he's ignoring them. It's not a big deal.” Peter sighs, letting his eyes fall closed and Tony notices the dark circles under his eyes and his anger withers. Is it his imagination or do Peter's cheekbones seem more prominent?

He is _really_ not okay with this whole shitty scenario.

Tony wants his son healthy and happy, griping about being kept out of the loop, eating more than his body weight every few hours, and inexplicably still convinced he and Steve think Gwen is “just a friend”.

~

Clint knows better, but after the thirty-eight hour mark marathoning Star Trek episodes (between Peter's sleeping bouts) starts to creep up on them, he starts to think maybe Tony's paranoia has reached new levels, and maybe Peter is really okay. That maybe Bruce's half-hearted, "It *could* be cooincidence," is actually the truth.

He really should know fucking better.

It's just after 2100, the lights in the room down low in deference to Peter who's in the sleep part of his cycle; there are a couple of desk lamps on in the lab on the other side of the glass, plus a couple of monitors, and some colored blinky lights on the machinery around Peter's bed. Clint's about halfway through his watch, not that they've set up an official *watch*, it just happens that every four hours or so, someone else comes in to see how Peter's doing and there's only two chairs, one of which is occupied by Steve 99.9% of the time.

Now's actually part of that .1% where Steve's not trying to become one with the chair. Instead, Tony's the one holding it down. He's sitting with the chair turned to face the bed, flush up against the side, his legs tangled in the mess of supports and equipment underneath it and his elbows propped on the mattress next to Peter's chest.

Peter himself is curled up on his side and Tony's got his fingers threaded through Peter's, their palms resting together. Tony's other hand is buried in his own hair, exhausted, shadowed eyes focused on Peter's face.

Clint hasn't seen him sit this still in--well, ever, probably, and it's taking a lot of effort to keep his eyes on the brightly colored Angry Birds app on his phone. Tony's not...Tony gets weird when people notice him being pretty much anything but snarky and in control, and he's dealing with a lot of shit with Peter being sick like he is, so Clint's trying to be considerate. As much as he knows how. Hence, Angry Birds and way more focus than a couple of obnoxious green pigs really merit. It helps that the physics in the game are a joke, which pisses Clint off because that's the kind of stuff he uses to do his job and not being able to aim a bunch of goddamn animated birds is embarrassing.

It seems to be working though, 'cause Tony's focus is on Peter instead of his game face.

That means Clint can see the raw fear, the floundering helplessness, and the way his giant brain is working overtime trying to figure out how to solve this. Clint's not sure there is anything he can do and that thought makes his stomach do a slow, sick roll.

His eyes flick to Peter and then back to the pigs--laughing at him now, the little green bastards--and he swears at them because out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony closing his eyes and drawing Peter's knuckles up to his mouth, whispering something Clint really doesn't want to hear because his tortured expression says too much as it is.

The door to the lab opens with a quiet shifting of air and Clint drops his chair to all four legs.

Steve slips inside and closes the door behind him silently. He nods at Clint and Clint nods back, goes back to his birds. He really does try not to pay attention as Steve crosses the room to Tony who's straightened up, eased Peter's hand back down to the mattress and pulled down his game face.

Clint hates that face a lot right now. His fucking kid is sick with some unknown disease, he shouldn't feel like he has to cover up the fact that it's killing him slowly. Not from them. Not from Steve.

"Hey," Tony says in a low voice and rubs his eyes. "Sorry-- I shouldn't-- What time is it?"

Steve glances at his watch, curling the other hand around the back of Tony's neck. "9:16," he reports and Tony swears under his breath.

"Shit, sorry, I'm sorry, I meant to go back, like, an hour ago. *Shit*." He starts trying to extricate himself from Peter and Clint has to bite down on the urge to tell him to stay where he is. Thankfully, Steve puts a hand on his arm and Tony freezes, except for his throat, which works a few times, his eyes fixed on the sheets.

"What? Tony, no," Steve says, frowning. Clint tries not to breathe. "Don't be ridiculous. You've barely spent any time with Peter, you should be here."

Tony flinches like Steve's hauled back and caught him with a right hook and Clint winces, very, very carefully.

"Well, excuse me for trying to figure out what the hell is going on," Tony snaps, voice too loud.

"I didn't mean-- Tony, don't, please. I wasn't--"

"It's fine," Tony spits so bitterly Clint can taste it. He wiggles free of Peter and shoves the chair back, the wood protesting against the linoleum. He stands, glaring up at Steve and cuts a hand over the vacated chair. "Go on, I'll just fuck it up."

Steve screws up his face, frustration and pain warring for prominence on his features. Weariness mostly wins out, still. He catches Tony's wrist in his hand as Tony shoves past him and Tony snarls, tries to jerk free. "Let go."

On the bed, Peter makes a little noise and Clint's head swivels. Steve's frustration is starting to leak out. "You're not screwing anything up," he says, but Clint's only half listening. Peter shifts, makes the sound again, a sound Clint doesn't like one bit and he rolls to his feet, cautiously touches Peter's shoulder. "Pete?" he says.

Tony barks with derisive laughter. "I've basically made a *career* of fucking things up--you've said so yourself!"

Peter shivers under his blanket and blinks awake, the little noise slipping from his mouth and Clint leans forward, catches his bleary gaze even as Steve says, "I have *never*--"  
  
Tony starts making a list, flipping fingers up in Steve's face as he goes. "The thing with the Doombots, the thing with Richards three weeks ago, the other *night* when you told me to stop sending Happy to pick Peter up--"  
  
"Uncle Clint?" Peter mumbles and shifts restlessly under the blankets. "Dads...?"

"Hey, Pete," Clint says in a low voice, brushing a hand over his head. Steve's legitimately *shouting* now, denying that he thinks Tony's a fuck-up, which, duh, he married the guy.

Tony snarls, "You didn't have to *say it*, the pattern speaks for itself," and Peter winces, but Clint can tell it's not in response to his dads' argument, it's something internal--pain, and it's bad.

"Pete?" he says, questioning, as Steve yells, "*Dammit*, Tony, I don't think you're a screw up!"

Peter goes rigid, a whimper slipping from his throat, and then curls up, his hands clenching around his calf muscle.  
  
"What, what is it, Pete?" Clint asks and tugs back the blanket so he can put his hand over Peter's, so he can get a better look. Tony's losing his steam, his voice wobbling when he says, "I don't even care if you think I'm a fuck up because it's *true* and I am scared *out of my mind* that I'm going to fuck *this* up and I *can't* okay, I *can't*--"  
  
"Not everything is about you, Tony," Steve says. "Stop being such a martyr."  
  
Tony starts to retort, but instead of his voice it's Peter letting out a sharp cry and Clint wheels around, snaps, "Would you two shut the fuck up for a *second*? Peter's awake and he's in pain, Jesus Christ, guys, I know this is hard, but get it together!"

For a second it looks like the two of them are going to turn their combined wrath on Clint, but then they see Peter, with his face mashed into the pillow, and moaning a constant litany of, "Ow, ow, ow, ow, shit, fuck, ow, what the hell, ow."

Their faces fall and Tony breathes, "Shit, *Peter?*"

"Da--*nngh*." Peter's whole body shudders and he goes totally rigid, whimpering.

"Peter?" Steve cries and the two of them practically leap onto the bed, both searching Peter from head to foot, looking for any sign of what's going on. Clint thinks he has an idea.

"Peter, what is it?" Tony demands. "What's wrong? JARVIS! Get Bruce down here *now*!"

"Yes, sir," JARVIS says and Peter's hand clenches as he muffles a shout behind clenched teeth.

"Get back!" Clint orders and Tony's head comes up, his eyes blazing.

"You get back," he snarls, his arms bracketed protectively around Peter.

Even after all these years of extra training, Tony's not much of a physical threat to Clint; Clint just glares and says, "Just back the fuck off, Tony, I think I know what the problem is, all right?"

Tony actually growls at him, but Steve catches Tony by the shoulder, pulls back gently and Tony lets himself be drawn back, just a little.  
  
"Peter," Clint says, turning his focus back to his nephew, whose throat is working as he takes jerky, uneven breaths through his mouth, tears wetting the corners of his clenched-shut eyes. It makes Clint's stomach lurch horribly. "Peter," he tries again, "I'm going to try to stretch your leg out, all right? It might hurt."  
  
Peter just chokes on a breath and nods sharply. Clint hesitates, knowing that if he's right, he's going to feel like hell, but tries to soothe himself with the reminder that at least they'll know why Peter's in agony. He takes Peter's leg at the ankle and the knee and unfolds it.

Peter screams, his chest catching on a wailing sob.

Tony lunges over Peter's body, snarling in incoherent rage and Clint just barely manages to duck back out of range of his fist. "It's a charlie horse!" he shouts. "Maybe a couple of them, I didn't even know that was *possible*, fuck, Tony stop it! We needed to know!"

"I will *kill* you, Barton!" Tony bellows and Clint's pretty sure the only thing keeping him from coming over the bed is Steve's hands on his shoulders.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Bruce says, staring wide-eyed around at them from the door. "Tony--"

"I swear to *god* if you lay a hand on him again--"

Clint hardens his jaw and backs away from the bed, holding his hands up so that they can be clearly seen. He keeps going until he's standing against the far wall. Steve is looking at him, stricken and he says, "A charlie horse, you really think--"

Bruce is edging in from the doorway, glancing nervously between Peter and Tony, who's still straining to break free of Steve's hands. "Are we talking about a new symptom?"

That's when Peter kind of, *whimpers*, and stops writhing around. He lays there for a few seconds, his chest heaving and the spasm must have eased up because he flinches when he finally shifts his legs, but it doesn't seem to cause the same explosion of agony from just a few minutes ago. "Da-- Dad?" he says in a small, wavering voice and both Tony and Steve move to lean over him, Clint forgotten in an instant.

"We're here, we're here, Peter," Steve assures him, gingerly brushing back the sweat-slicked hair on Peter's forehead.

"Hey, buddy," Tony says and his face is excruciating to look at, twisted with fear and anguish even as he tries to smile at Peter.

Bruce sidles up beside Clint, almost as good at being unnoticable as Clint himself is and murmurs, "Muscle spasms? Are you sure?"

"Pretty," Clint replies. "Tried to stretch his leg out and he screamed."

Bruce grimaces sympathetically. "That explains Tony. I'm sorry."

Clint shrugs, drops his eyes when Steve leans in to press a kiss to Peter's forehead, shushing him, Tony's hand caught in his white-knuckled grip. It's gotta hurt like hell, but Tony looks totally oblivious. He glances at Bruce to keep himself from watching Steve and Tony with Peter; Bruce has one arm crossed tight over his chest, hand crammed in under the other elbow, and his remaining free hand fiddling anxiously with his glasses.

"He's not getting better, is he," Clint says.

"No," Bruce says and grimaces. "He's not."

 

~

 

Natasha is grimly unsurprised when she comes down to the medbay to find Peter's spell of improvement ended.

The lights are on even though it's three o'clock in the morning because Peter doesn't seem aware of the difference and the light makes it easier for Bruce to work.

Natasha touches Bruce's shoulder with a light hand as she passes and he offers her a wan smile over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the IV bag. Clint is in the corner, trying to blend in with the wall and Natasha joins him there, her gaze on the bed where Tony is sitting with Peter sprawled across his legs on his belly. Peter's face is buried against Tony's hip, fingers digging into the bare flesh of Tony's arms. Broken blood vessels adorn them from shoulder to forearm in red streaks of varying darkness--a result of the ferocity of Peter's clinging.

Natasha's lips pull back a fraction as Peter howls into Tony's hip, trying to jerk away from Steve's hands on his leg, which are manipulating the muscle with steady pressure. Steve keeps his eyes down and his touch gentle, but the tension across his shoulders makes it all too obvious how much it hurts him every time it's his hands that make Peter cry out.

There is a long line of heat packs draped over Peter's other leg and Natasha pulls her gaze away when Peter chokes out another scream, his fingers digging so hard into Tony's arm that bright red blood instantly floods up under the skin. She still sees how Tony doesn't flinch, just bows forward, a ginger hand settling on Peter's back as he murmurs, "I know, buddy, I know," his voice strangled into hoarseness.

Finally, Natasha turns her back on them entirely, her jaw tense. Clint looks exhausted. "Thought I'd seen the worst of everything," he says. "Wrong again."

Natasha moves closer to allow her shoulder to touch his, the only comfort she knows how to offer. "What's wrong now?" she asks.

"Charlie horses," Clint says, the corner of his mouth flicking up in a humorless smile.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Hors*es?*"

"Yep. Come and go in waves, three or four different muscle groups at a time. Bruce is pumping him full of electrolytes and pain killers, but it's not doing much good. Steve got 'em a lot back before the serum and he says massage and heat always helped him. Think it is, a little, but it's wrecking them," he says, gesturing to Steve and Tony with his elbow.

Peter screams and Natasha closes her eyes. "How can they bear it?"

"I don't think they *are*," Clint says. "You should have seen them going at it earlier. They're losing it."

Behind her Natasha hears Peter's breathing change and she looks over her shoulder to see that he's loosened his grip on Tony's arms. He's gone totally limp, sucking in wet little gasps and Tony's bent over him, sheltering, murmuring, "There you go, that's it, champ. God, you're a tough kid. Something else, you know that? Take after your dad."

Tony's not looking at Steve, deliberately avoiding it. "Tony," he says, careful, "he doesn't get that from me."  
  
Tony huffs a self-depricating laugh and rolls his eyes. "Doesn't get his strength from you, yeah, okay, Supes."

Steve shakes his head. "Not this kind of strength." He leans forward and catches Tony's face between his hands, ignoring the way Tony tries to duck out of his grip, his face flushing beneath the stubble. "You're a great dad, Tony," he murmurs.

"C'mon, Steve," Tony mutters, and pushes at his hands, embarrassed. "Stop it. I'm not--this is nothing. Like I'm supposed to leave when he feels like shit?"

"Some people would," Steve says.

"I didn't stay before," Tony replies stiffly.

"But you were doing it to help Peter." Tony's still resolutely staring down at Peter's back, at the hand rubbing languid circles down its length and Steve sighs, lets one of his hands drop to curl around Tony's elbow. "Look, you're right. Sometimes, you screw up." Tony flinches, starts to shrink back and set his shoulders and Steve holds on to him, his jaw hardening. "*Let me finish.* You're just a man, Tony. Sometimes you screw up and I know you're always saying that Captain America is a sham and that the American people have got it all wrong, but you buy into that trick yourself. But you're right, and I'm just a man--you know that better than anyone. So sometimes I say stupid things and I get mad and I blow your mistakes out of proportion.

But when it really counts, Tony? When we really need you? You are always there. I know I can count on you-- *Peter* knows he can count on you. Even if sometimes we believe what the press says about you and expect too much, we always know that you will do everything you actually are capable of. That's all we can ask of you and we are both damn grateful for it."

There's a brief moment of silence and then Tony clears his throat, says, carefully upbeat: "Rein it in there, Steve, you're making Clint blush. Save it for the bedroom." Clint swears because apparently he's forgotten who these men are and assumed they'd been forgotten about. Natasha just smiles and takes a moment to enjoy the way Tony has *almost* managed to mask the sincere emotion behind the wisecrack.

Steve half-rolls his eyes and says, "What I'm trying to say is: I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," Tony says primly and if he clings a little tighter than necessary when Steve presses their mouths together, Natasha will tell no one.

~

 

"Oh my god--*Tony*," Bruce says when he notices the marks on his arms.

"What?" Tony says wearily as Steve helps him slip out from under Peter. He follows Bruce's gaze to the streaks turning to bruises and shrugs. "Oh. Whatever. So he hung on a little too hard. It's not a big deal."

Bruce catches one of Tony's wrists, lifting it so he can get a better look. "Peter did this? Tony, some of these are really deep."

"Kid's half super soldier, what'd you expect?" Then he moves his left hand and winces.

Bruce's eyes dart to his face before he gets hold of Tony's hand. "Your hand hurts when you move it?" Tony hisses, knees bending as he tries to escape the pressure of Bruce's fingers.

"And when you *grab it*," he snaps. "Jesus, didn't you take the Hippocratic oath? Ow! Will you let go?"

"That was me," Steve says and he's staring at Tony's hand with a stricken expression on his face.

"Now look what you've done! Steve, I'm *fine*," Tony tries to insist, but his hand is dark purple along the full length of the index metacarpal.

"Tony, it could be *broken*," Bruce says. "JARVIS--"

"I am doing a scan now, Doctor Banner," JARVIS says and Tony huffs, his eyes widening in outrage.

"You're siding with *him?*"

"It is frequently in your best interest for me to side with Doctor Banner," JARVIS says.

"And who the hell made it your job to look after my best interest?" Tony demands.

"I did, sir," JARVIS says. "You programmed me to be concerned about my own welfare and as you are my creator and the only man alive capable of providing me with the proper care, it is in my best interest to ensure you remain well. It is an entirely selfish endeavor, I assure you, sir."

Tony scowls. "Why the hell did I ever teach you to lie?" he grumbles.

"I have no idea what you mean, sir," JARVIS says, and sounds entirely too innocent. "Doctor Banner, my scans indicate that no bones were broken. The damage is limited to heavy bruising."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Bruce says and turns a stern look on Tony. "Sit. I'm going to get you an ice pack." He raises his voice slightly when Tony opens his mouth--obviously to object--and says, "Don't argue with me. I'm already letting you push yourself to the brink of exhaustion. Just let me take care of you, okay?"

By the end, Bruce's voice is just shy of hysterical and he must look a little wild around the eyes because Tony nods slowly, unblinking, and says, "Sure, okay, Bruce. If it means that much to you."

"Thank you!" Bruce exclaims, vehemently, and takes a shaky breath. "*Sit.*"

Steve yanks a chair around and Tony immediately drops into it. He moves to hold his hands up flat, but the gesture is ruined when he winces.

"Don't move," Bruce orders and as he moves away to get the ice pack, he hears Steve say, "I'm so sorry, Tony."

"*This is all your fault!*" Tony yells after Bruce and Bruce yells back, "Be *quiet*, Tony!"

He must be looking a little green because Tony doesn't respond.

When he gets back a moment later he feels a little less frazzled. Steve is bent close to Tony's shoulder, saying in a low voice, "You're supposed to tell me."

Tony rolls his eyes and says peevishly, "Don't I usually? I don't know if you noticed, but I was kind of preoccupied."

Steve runs featherlight fingers over the bruise on Tony's hand, his brow creased right down the middle. "You know I hate when this happens."

Tony sighs and the annoyance drains out of his expression. "I know."

"I'm not supposed to hurt you."

Careful not to use his injured hand, Tony waves dismissively. "You're a super soldier, shit happens, Steve. I heal."

"You won't always," Steve says, head bowed to watch his fingertips glide over the dark bruise on Tony's hand.

"One of these days I'll figure that out and then you won't have to worry." He pulls a crooked smile and leans forward, nuzzles the hook of Steve's jaw.

Steve turns his face toward him a fraction, says, a little wry, "I wish you'd hurry up already."

Tony grins. "Procrastinator, what can I say." His eyes flick up, catching Bruce looking and Bruce flushes even though he knows the two of them probably knew he was standing there. "Got some ice for me?" Tony says and Bruce lifts the pack, shuffles his feet a little.

"Um. Yeah." He moves forward to settle the pack over Tony's hand. "Keep it there for fifteen minutes."

Tony winks at him and slouches back in the chair. "Sure thing, Doc."

~

 

"He's changing." Bruce sits back in the lab abruptly, staring unseeing over the microscope in front of him.   
  
"Yes, sir," JARVIS says quietly.  
  
Bruce pulls off his glasses and takes a shaky breath. "Shit," he whispers.   
  
"My sentiments exactly," JARVIS murmurs.  
  
"I don't understand why this is happening!" Bruce says, and his frustration leaks out into his voice. "This isn't how radiation works," he insists, despite all the evidence he's seen to the contrary. He doesn't want it to work this way, because the idea of Peter suffering through what he's suffered through makes him physically ill.  
  
"It is bewildering," JARVIS agrees. "His cellular structures are changing at the most basic level. The closest thing I have heard of is Captain Rogers' and the super soldier serum."  
  
"And that's presumably what Sibbel was trying to replicate, but Steve's transformation took mere minutes. It's been *days* for Peter."  
  
"He was also dosed in a far different manner."  
  
"I know, I know," Bruce mutters

~

Tony steps into the lab and Bruce's gaze hits his face for a split-second before dread rolls through him and he drops his eyes, his fingers clenching around the worktable.

Tony stops dead and, in a very carefully and fragily calm voice, says, questioning, “Bruce?”

Bruce breathes and then reluctantly raises his eyes to Tony's.

Tony stares at him, eyes wide and dark with dread and denial in equal measures. “Bruce,” he says again and there's a small, pleading note in his otherwise emotionless voice.

Bruce swallows and turns his palms up, starts to talk. “He's... He's changing, Tony. At the cellular level. I don't— I don't know what more we can do. We can't stop the spread of the venom or the radiation and those are the factors that seem to be causing the changes, so—”

“Changes— _What_ changes?” Tony croaks.

Bruce's shoulders lift and stick that way, his hands waving. “Everything. Every single part of his body seems to be altering in some way. That's why the fever, the rash, the muscle spasms, the seizures.”

Tony's face goes white, like his throat's been slit. “His  _brain's_ changing.”

Bruce lets out a shuddering breath, the lump in his throat like a fist against his trachea. “Yes.”

Steve steps up behind Tony in the doorway then and puts a hand on his shoulder. His expression goes from weary to worried in the space of an eye-blink. “Tony, you're shaking.” He looks to Bruce, his blue eyes sharp with fear. “What happened?”

Tony's still staring at Bruce. He looks shell-shocked.

“You should sit down,” Bruce tells Steve quietly.

~

“ _Dads!”_

Peter's voice breaks through the lab, shrill and thready with panic. Tony jerks and knocks over an entire row of test tubes, shattering a few and spilling their contents across the lab table. He swears and reaches out like he's going to start cleaning up, but then Peter wails again, higher and more frantic, “ _Dad!”_

He spins away from the mess and darts through to Peter, calling, “I'm here! I'm here, Peter, what is it, what's wrong?”

Steve stumbles in through the lab door at Clint's right before Tony's even finished asking, his face white. He doesn't look around or hesitate as he makes his way across the lab to Peter's room. On the other side of the glass, Tony's shuffling at the edge of the line of red tape on the floor around the bed, leaning closer than he probably ought to. He's trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring, but it's really not working. Clint's pretty impressed he's doing as well as he is, because Peter's clawed his way into a half-sitting position and he's holding his arms out, palms to the ceiling. He looks absolutely  _terrified,_ and if that makes Clint want to tear the world apart to make it stop, he can't even imagine how Tony must feel.

Then Clint sees what Peter's showing Tony and fear skitters up his spine, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The skin on Peter's wrists has opened up just below the line of the heel of his palm, red and raw, and the wounds are seeping a thick white substance that's spotted with the brick red of clotted blood, the vivid red of fresh. Clint gags and throws his arm across his face, barely managing to choke back the urge to puke.

“ _Tony!_ ” Steve barks and Clint glances their way again to see Tony pull back over the tape, his fists clenched and his eyes blazing, half-filled with tears. “Step back, Tony,” Steve orders, but his voice is shaking and it comes out more like a plea.

Tony's mouth works a few times, his chest heaving with sharp, stuttering breaths, before he finally hardens his jaw and takes one very small step away from the line, his eyes fixed on Peter. “I'm— I'm here, okay, Bambi? I'm  _right here_ ,” he says and his voice cracks, but somehow the tears hold, hovering on the edge.

Steve moves forward then, right across the red tape line and he eases down on the bed next to Peter, who's slumped into the pillows on his side, unable to hold himself up any longer. Wet brown eyes slide over to look, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks and he twitches his arms toward Steve.

“Daddy, make it stop, please, please, make it stop, _please_.”

_Shit._

Clint has to cover his mouth with his arm again to cover up the way his breath catches, his eyes pricking.

Shit shit, fuck, goddamn.

Tony looks like he's actually biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, but somehow Steve just leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, gingerly taking Peter's arms in his hands. They look so thin and fragile in contrast with Steve's broad palms and Clint presses his knuckles into his mouth until it hurts. “I would if I could, Peter.”

“Please, dad, _please,_ I'll come home right after school and I won't forget to get the eggs and I'll never complain when you go out without dad, please, I'm so sorry.”

“Fuck,” Tony says, voice wobbling and he drops into a crouch, splaying his hands over his face as he chokes out a low, rough sound.

Steve swallows, his control wavering for a second, but he just draws Peter up against his chest and starts rocking him gently, holding him tight.

“Please, I don't want to die,” Peter chokes.

~

Eventually the activity in Peter's muscles eases and Bruce stops administering the sedatives, saying, “This is good. This might be a sign that things are making a turn for the better, but I'd like to be able to determine his level of coherency.”

Tony and Steve both come to wait for him to wake.

Steve sits and watches his face, straight-backed and perfectly still while Tony paces in a U around the bed, slapping one palm with a long, thin screwdriver, hard enough that he's raising weals across his palm.

When Peter's eyes ease open, Tony freezes and Steve leans forward, his stoic expression melting into one of concern. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Hey,” Tony says, voice hushed. “Peter?”

Peter blinks at him lethargically, hazy-eyed and Tony's grip on the screwdriver tightens, his eyes darting over to Bruce, but Bruce just shakes his head, silently tells him to be patient. Those sedatives had been nothing to sneeze at, Peter's going to be groggy for awhile. Tony eases down onto the very edge of one of the chairs closest to the bed like he thinks it's going to grab hold of him and pin him down. Peter's eyes track his progress, which is good, and Tony seems to realize as much because he looks encouraged.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs. “Hey. It's Dad.”

Peter's eyes droop closed; Tony wilts a little when they remain that way, the minutes dragging by.

“That's fine,” Bruce tells them in a whisper. “It's the sedatives. It will take a little while for his system to flush them out all the way.”

Steve leans back from the bed. He looks utterly spent. Bruce is exhausted himself, frayed at the edges, but it's not his child in the hospital bed and as hard as it's been for him, seeing Peter like this, being angry with himself because he should be able to tell them more, to do more, it's still not his baby that's so ill.

Tony puts his head in his hands. “I'm sorry,” he croaks, eventually.

Steve shakes himself and a frown creeps across his face. “Sorry? What are you sorry for, Tony?”

“This shouldn't be happening!” Tony says with a sharp wave of his hand. “He shouldn't be like this!”

  
  


Tony spins on his heel, holding one finger up and Steve knows he's about to get an ear-full. It still never fails to amaze him how much attitude Tony can pack in to the simplest gestures. “No. No, absolutely not, it ain't happening. And furthermore,  _ fuck no,”  _ Tony says, his eyes fever-bright, his lip trembling slightly.

 

Steve sighs. Normally he'd bristle at Tony's entitled, dramatic BS, but he's exhausted. He's  _ worn out _ and heart sick and Tony's childish tantrums are too much to deal with, even if he understands why Tony's acting like this. Steve considers fighting him for a brief moment and decides what little energy he has is better spent. “Fine,” he says. “Whatever. Do whatever you want.”

Tony's jaw is already firmed with a snippy retort, but that makes him falter. His jaw goes loose, his indignantly pointed finger sinking. “Um,” he says, now uncertain. He rubs the pads of his fingers together and shifts his weight. “...really? That's it?”

Steve shrugs; it's a half-hearted gesture. “I'm not going to make you do anything, Tony.”

Tony snorts. “Since when?”

That's fair, but Steve just tells him, “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Tony says and Steve hears him start forward. “Hang on.”

“What, Tony?” Steve asks wearily, pressing his thumb and his index finger into the corners of his eyes. The sound of his footsteps stop and Steve can feel him hesitate before he feels Tony's fingers curling around the inside of his elbow.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Steve. I'm sorry.”

Steve presses harder, a sharp, hot burning starting at the backs of his eyes. He presses until it hurts and he just wants Tony to shut up, he has somewhere he has to  _ be. _ He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to get out and do. Why can't Tony just  _ shut up? _

But he doesn't; Tony never does. “I know I've been kind of a jerk the last few days and I shouldn't be taking it out on you, but Steve—”

A breath catches slightly on its way out of Steve's chest despite his best efforts and Tony goes very still behind him.

“...Steve?”

“I'm fine,” he replies tersely and pulls his hand away from his eyes. “I have to go,” he repeats and ignores the way it feels like he's swallowed broken glass.

“Like hell you are,” Tony says and grips his arm harder, tugging insistently. “This is fucking with you as much as it is me.”

“ _ Tony _ ,” Steve says and he can't stop how sharp it sounds. “If you don't want to go that's fine, but I need to.”

“Then go!” Tony tells him. “You and I both know I can't stop you! If you have to go, then go!”

But Steve doesn't. His chest is rising and falling visibly with every breath and there are people waiting on him,  _ counting _ on him, but he lets Tony pull him back around this time when he tugs. Tony's hands move up his shoulders to his neck, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Steve's neck and Steve takes one sharp, faltering breath, letting his head drop onto Tony's shoulder. His arms move around Tony, holding on and Tony's hands tighten around the back of his neck in response. The heat of his palms makes something sharp and hard inside Steve melt away. It hits him that this is the first time he's laid so much as a finger on Tony in days, the most he's said to him in as long and the loneliness he's been struggling to shake off suddenly makes sense. He breathes in Tony's familiar scent—metal and grease and something else he's never been able to place—and presses his face into Tony's neck, feels his pulse against the bridge of his nose, the heat of his skin on his cheeks.

Tony makes a little breathless noise in Steve's ear and he realizes he's holding on too hard. “Sorry,” he mutters and eases up a little. Tony lets out an amused sound, turning his head so he can rest his forehead on Steve's shoulder, the roughness of his cheek against Steve's jaw.

“Missed you, too,” he murmurs and a lump catches in Steve's throat as Tony's lips press against the sensitive skin at the base of his ear. “Sorry I've been so—”

“No,” Steve says. “Not for this. Not for Peter.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony says, “but I could have taken a break. I mean, come on, I haven't so much as ogled your ass in three days.  _ Three days,  _ Steve.”

Steve breathes out a laugh and runs his hand down Tony's back, surprised by how much comfort the feel of the familiar muscles against his palm alone provides. “Actually fessing up to working too hard? Now I've seen everything.”

“Ha ha,” Tony mutters, his breath sinking through Steve's shirt, warm and damp against his skin.

Steve tucks his nose under the line of Tony's jaw and says quietly, “I know you're doing everything you can. But I'm scared, Tony. Terrified. What if you can't—” His voice catches in his throat and he feels Tony swallow hard, his fingers tightening.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Yeah, I've uh,” he clears his throat. “I've been thinking about that a lot. I don't think I could— If—“ He breathes out sharply into Steve's shoulder and shakes his head. “Fuck, Steve, I've never been so scared in my life. If he— Fuck.  _ Fuck.” _

 

Yeah. Steve knows.

~

 

The room doesn't have to be dark at night. Peter's in a fucking coma, it's not like it's going to  _ wake him up _ . Besides, it's unusual for someone  _ not _ to be in the lab—Tony's noticed they tend to slip out as soon as he or Steve show up—but Bruce has been turning the lights off at night anyway, hanging his hat on one last shred of normalcy.

There's a big red line of tape arcing across the floor from about a foot away from the left wall to about the same on the right. There's a Geiger counter sitting another foot outside that line, which is there because not only is Peter's body breaking down, not only is he in a coma, he's also so fucking radioactive now that that's as far as Tony's allowed to go.

His son is dying and Tony can't even enter the room unless he wants to risk winding up sick and dying too.

The Geiger counter is quiet and Tony steps up to the line, pokes at it with his toes. It would be easy. It would be  _ painful _ , but Tony's been there, done that. He can deal with the physical pain. But this blade in his chest he can't shake, the way it  _ burns _ when he thinks about not having Peter anymore... There aren't words.

He scuffs the tape with his toe and then sniffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, draws back. He finally brings himself to look into the room when he turns around again and freezes because Steve's leaning over Peter, kissing his forehead. It feels like he's been socked in the gut.

It had never occurred to him that Steve would be resistant to the radiation. But of course, that makes sense. What's more startling is the seething jealousy boiling up inside Tony. He doesn't even realize how bad it is until Steve glances up and sees him, his face showing surprise and then dread. He crosses to the door and steps out breathing, “Tony, what is it?”

Tony sees the panic and the part of him that gives a damn is ruthlessly smothered by the part of him that wants to scream and destroy something, anything.

“ _ Tony,”  _ Steve says and Tony crosses his arms, hunches his shoulders.

“I'm not here with news,” he snaps. “Calm down.”

Steve takes an obviously shaky breath and looks at Tony his brow creasing in admonishment. “You scared the daylights out of me, Tony.”

“Seeing as 'daylights' aren't something people contain, I don't see how that's possible.”

The crease turns to confusion. “What...? Tony—”

Tony ignores him, glancing down at the floor and the red line Steve's still standing inside. He sniffs, swiping a knuckle under his nose and says, casually as he can, “Radiation doesn't stick?”

“No, it...”

Tony sees the second Steve starts to get it and anger wells up in him, but there's another emotion coming up right along with it and Tony almost chokes on the sob that claws its way out of his throat. “ _ He's my goddamn son, too!” _ he yells and oh, fuck, is he  _ crying? _

The look on Steve's face, aching and sympathetic, tells him that yes, yes he is.

“Fuck,” he snarls and swipes roughly at the tears streaking down his cheeks. “This is  _ so  _ unfair,” he shouts and Steve looks almost as miserable as Tony feels. “I can't even be in the same  _ room _ with him and I don't even know if this is— If he's going to— Oh, fuck.” Tony's legs go weak and he sinks down, drops to his ass on the floor. “Oh god, no,” he breathes, propping his shaking arms on his knees and propping his head up on his hands, his ring and pinky fingers covering his eyes. It does nothing to stem the flow of tears and he shudders when he feels Steve's hand on his shoulder, his hip sliding down to rest next to his. He can't breathe. His chest is heaving and he's not even coherent anymore, just bleating, “No, no, n-no, n-not like this, no, I— I— j-just f-fu- _ fuck _ . No,  _ wh-wh-why _ .”

“Tony, you need to breathe,” Steve says. “You have to breathe.”

Who the fuck cares if he breathes? Peter's dying. Maybe if he keeps it up like this, he'll cry himself to death because he can't deal with this. It feels like he's breaking apart. Can you suffocate to death from crying too hard? It sure as hell feels like he's dying. He hopes so.

“Tony,” Steve says and it must be the tone of his voice that gets Tony's attention because he's barely aware of anything other than the sharp heaves of his chest. He wipes his palms across his face for all the good it does and glances sideways at Steve, every breath still hitching, his nose dripping with snot.

Steve looks pale, stunned.

Tony mentally rewinds to listen to his incoherent rambling and realizes what he's said. “I d-didn't m-m mean it,” he mutters and presses his palms to his eyes only to feel them fill with tears. Jesus, he can't  _ stop. _

“Yes, you did.”

It's idiotic to try denying it again and Tony's too tired anyway. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. He glances at the sliver of Peter's face he can see from here and feels his chin, his lip tremble. He shakes his head and puts his head in his hands. “I c-couldn't. If he— I couldn't, Steve.”

“He won't,” Steve says and Tony lets out a bark of humorless laughter, throws out his hands.

“Look at him! He already fucking is!”

Steve swallows hard and shrinks back from Tony slightly, curling inward and Tony hates himself.

“He can't, Tony, all right?” Steve says, staring at his hands, clasped tight between his knees. “He can't. So we're not going to let him. Right?”

And when Steve looks at him, Tony remembers how much impossible shit he's done just because he had Steve and his quiet faith backing him up. “Right,” he says shakily. “We won't let him.”

~

 

Steve genuinely has no idea how long he's been sitting in Peter's room gazing blankly at his face when Thor sits down, his normally jovial face somber.

Steve can't bring himself to say anything, so he merely nods. Thor nods back and his blue eyes immediately take on a sheen, pinkening around the edges so that the color becomes electric, unreal. Steve straightens and the part of him that is Captain America stirs. "Thor?" he questions, his voice hoarse from strain and disuse.

A single tear glides down Thor's cheek and vanishes into the blond hairs of his mustache. Steve's heart throbs too hard, afraid.

"What--" he says and watches as another streaks from the other eye and slips into the lines carved by Thor's smiles.

Thor doesn't respond at first, looking to Peter and bending forward over his clasped hands in a sort of bow. When he leans back, he sniffles and returns the intensity of his gaze to Steve. He says quietly, "I come to weep openly, so that you may feel no shame in it."

And it feels like Steve's heart catches in his throat, tearing with finely honed blades. He looks away, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and croaks, "I can't."

"It--is unwise to deny such powerful emotions," Thor says, his voice hitching slightly and it rips a little more of Steve's self-control away. "Your child is gravely ill, no one would fault you for a moment of unbounded grief."

Steve's throat constricts so tightly it feels like the skin has broken and the backs of his eyes burn, filling with heat. "*No,*"he says and sounds broken even to his own ears, "I *can't*."

Steve can't cry, he can't, because if he looses even one tear then it will be like he's given up on Peter and he can't. He hasn't and he won't. Peter is going to be *fine* and Steve doesn't care if it's irrational, *he will not cry*.

So he screws up his face and swallows hard and forces back the bladed lump of his heart, feels it settle into his chest again, sharp and aching with hope.

And maybe Thor doesn't understand, but that's okay. Thor can cry for him, for the part of him that's shriveled and dying. Steve sniffs, blinks stinging, tired eyes and watches Peter's face as Thor sits quietly beside him a steady stream of tears trickling down his cheeks.

Steve genuinely has no idea how long they've been sitting there when Thor finally wipes his face and stands, his shoulders weighed down by some invisible burden.


	4. Draft IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this draft was started after I began posting, which is why the first two chapters are missing.

~ Chapter Three ~

 

Peter drops his skateboard when the elevator doors slide open and puts his foot down on it, pushing off so he glides through the penthouse of Avengers Tower. He nearly goes flying over a decorative table when a voice calls, "Pretty sure you're not supposed to skateboard in here, buddy."

Instead, Peter skids to a stop just shy of the table and retorts, "And I'm pretty sure you're on the wrong floor."

Uncle Clint grins at him from where he's sitting on the kitchen island with a tub of Tony's favorite ice cream between his thighs, his mouth bowing obscenely around a spoon. His right arm's in a sling, but other than that he looks okay.

"You know dad blames _me_ when you do that."

Clint's grin turns even more satisfied and he pops the spoon out of his mouth with a sucking noise, lapping the lingering ice cream off. "I know."

"You're an ass."

He rolls his eyes when Clint clucks disapprovingly and says, "If your fathers heard the way you talk to me..."

"If my fathers heard the way I talk to you, they'd know you sneak in through the vents," Peter says, dropping his bag by the table as he heads to the fridge.

"Touché," Clint says, pointing the spoon at him thoughtfully.

"Sir," JARVIS says, "your father prefers you take your bookbag and shoes into your room, rather than leaving them on the floor here."

That'd be Steve. Tony's as bad about cluttering the house up as Peter is. Probably worse actually. "You know, normal kids do stuff they're not supposed to all the time when their parents aren't home. That's kind of the whole idea. Kids do stuff they're not supposed to, parents come home and tell them off, kids moan and whine and do stuff they should have done in the first place. It's family synergy, JARVIS. Why do you want to go ruining that?"

"And you're mad about getting blamed for the ice cream?" Clint says.

JARVIS sighs without sighing and says, "I really don't know, sir. Perhaps all that energy could be directed toward more positive discussions."

Peter rolls his eyes because odds are they'd all wind up arguing about what TV show they're going to watch instead, but whatever. "I'll get it later, J."

"Very well, sir," JARVIS says with another non-sigh. Peter rifles around in the fridge for a minute before settling on some pop—Mexican Coke his dad has shipped in special because it tastes the way Coke did a hundred years ago or whatever—and thinks about texting his dad, but resists in the end because he's probably in debriefing and Director Fury always gets his panties in a bunch when his dads text during those. He can feel Clint's eyes on the back of his head. Peter tries not to fidget and says, as casually as he can manage, "Wha'd you do to your arm?"

When he turns around to lean on the island, Clint's shrugging and filling his mouth with ice cream again. "Grapple hook," he says around a mouthful. "Smacked into the building exterior."

Peter snags the spoon out of his mouth and uses it to scoop out a blob of ice cream, which he drops in his Coke before stabbing it back into the carton. "Smooth."

"I'd like to see you calculate velocity and trajectory when you're in free fall, smartass."

"If you'd ever take me _up_ with you—"

With one smooth motion, Clint pulls the tub out from between his legs, moving it to the countertop and hops down, turning to face him. "Are we gonna have this argument again?"

Peter tilts his chin up. "I just don't see why you won't let me."

"Hello. Duh. Your dads have expressly forbidden it. I may be the cool uncle, but there's no way in hell I'm going to risk pissing them off—not for this. No superhero stuff till you graduate—"

"I _know,_ I _know_ , because school's important, I'm only gonna be a kid once, there will be plenty of time to throw myself into danger when I'm older; _I know._ But you picked up a bow when you were an _actual_ child and..."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "And what? And your dad was twenty-five before he even volunteered for the serum? And your _other_ dad was thirty-eight when he built the first Iron Man suit? Oh, and what's that, your uncle was thirty-two when _he_ had an experiment blow up in his face and turn him into a rage monster it's taken him three decades to learn how to handle? And your _other_ uncle was _literally a thousand years old_ before his dad banished his ass?"

"Oh, come on," Peter scoffs, "that's not fair, it's the Midgardian equivalent of _eighteen_."

Crossing his arms over his chest and leveling his gaze at Peter, Clint says, "You're a gigantic nerd. We live on Earth. Planet Earth. You are not _of Asgard_."  
  
"No, if I _was_ we wouldn't be having this argument."

"Your aunt," Clint says, implacable, like that's an argument. It kind of is. He pulls the Coke out of Peter's hands and Peter glares at him sullenly. "You're lucky, Pete. You need to get that through your oversized brain. You pick up a lot of baggage in our line of work and no amount of therapy's gonna help you put it back down. I love Nat, you know I do, but she was _half_ your age when she got into the business and she's _still_ more comfortable with a glock and a garrote than she is with hugs and a home life."

_Aunt Nat didn't volunteer for it_ , Peter doesn't say. Instead he says: "I don't feel lucky."

They don't understand. They don’t know what it’s like being surrounded by people the world thinks are incredible, who go out and save the planet every couple of months, and to be thought of as their genius little kid mascot. He can do more than that. Can _be_ more than that. He doesn't have any right to do any less than them.

Before Uncle Clint can respond, JARVIS says, "Your fathers are coming up the elevator, sir."

Peter straightens and spins around to look at the clock on the stove. It's almost five already. "Crap, dinner, dinner, I gotta make dinner!"

"May I suggest spaghetti rotini, sir?" JARVIS says.

Peter's yanking boxes and pans out of the cabinets while Clint makes himself a nuisance when the elevator door pings and slides open. He tries to play it cool as he flips the water on and starts filling one of the pots, his heart pounding.

"Hey," Clint says, leaning against the counter next to the stove. "Relax. He's fine."

Peter glances at him, a _what are you talking about?_ on the tip of his tongue when he hears Tony's voice and his heart kicks up another notch, though he can't quite make out what Tony's saying. It sounds snarky, whatever it is.

Shocker.

Then he calls, "Peter?"

"In here, Dads!" Peter yells back and swings around to put the pot on the stove. He switches on the burner and then turns to greet them, leaning sideways to see into the open floor of the penthouse.

It takes a conscious effort not to flinch. Dad looks better with the blood cleaned from his face, but it makes the long line of stitches stark against his pale skin. There have to be at least fifty.

He's also limping.

"He bruised his hip," Tony says and Peter realizes he's staring. He looks up and Tony tilts his head, pursing his lips. "Don't give me that look, I didn't tell you because it's not a big deal. It's a bruise. It'll be gone in a week."

"You practically fell over yourself to try and get me off my feet when you picked me up, Tony," Steve says, dry.

Tony's nose wrinkles and he shoots a dirty look at Steve. "Sit down before you fall down, old timer."

Steve rolls his eyes, but eases into a chair on the other side of the bar.

"What are you doing here, Barton?" Tony asks, without ever looking at him, and then: " _Is that my ice cream, Peter?"_

Clint crosses his arms and grins lazily at the back of Tony's head. "Aw, don't be like that, Stark. I was just checking on our baby boy. Maybe you need to start locking up the freezer. This kid gets into everything." His arm comes out before Peter can dodge and he groans as Clint makes his already unmanageable hair even more of a mess.

"Thank you," Steve says while Tony's wrinkling his nose at Clint and shooting dirty looks at Peter. What's he going to say? He did put it in his Coke, which is _right there on the counter._ Clint pokes his fingers into the sauce pan where Peter's heating the spaghetti sauce. He hisses as it burns his fingers and sucks them into his mouth.

Tony narrows his eyes. "Staying to eat or just contributing _essence du Clint?"_

Rolling off of the counter, Clint smirks and dips his fingers in one more time, just to see the look on Tony's face. "Nah, can't stay. Tash and Darce are expecting me and I like my balls where they are." Then he catches Tony's gaze and beckons with two fingers. "Walk me to the elevator."

Tony gives him an assessing look and then says, "Yeah, I'd better." For some reason being left alone with his dad makes Peter's stomach flutter. He focuses on the boiling pasta harder than is really necessary as the silence drags out, the sound of Tony and Clint's voices a low, distant murmur.

"So...dinner, huh?" Steve says eventually, looking around at the stuff Peter's haphazardly thrown on the counter and Peter breathes out, feels the nerves start to ease away. He looks around at it too and shrugs.

"I'm giving up science. I want to be a chef."

Tony returns just in time to hear that. He snorts. "Smartass."

"I wonder where he gets that," Steve says, cheek propped on his fist.

"No idea," Tony replies, blithe as can be, and then sidles into the kitchen and nudges Peter with his elbow, followed by a hip bump. "Go give your dad a hug."

With a groan and an eyeroll, Peter obeys and shuffles around the counter to slide into the seat next to Steve. He smiles and lifts his arm so Peter can lean into his side. He kisses the top of Peter's head and Peter huffs, but something inside him that's been tight all day unfurls at last.

"I'm sorry I didn't wake you before I left."

"S'okay," Peter mutters into his shoulder. "Evil waits for no man."

Steve squeezes him and Peter just lets himself enjoy his dad's solid and very present heat for a minute. "When did you get so grown up?" Steve murmurs affectionately.  
  
"Took an e-course in maturity at NYU this afternoon."  
  
Tony nearly chokes on the grated cheese he's just put in his mouth.  
  
Peter manages a half smile before he leans his forehead into his dad's shoulder and says, quiet, "I wish you wouldn't go alone."  
  
Steve's hand curls around the back of his neck. "I wasn't alone. Didn't your dad tell you? Bruce and Clint went with me."  
  
"Yeah, but, I mean when you go without _Dad._ "  
  
Steve shifts and Peter keeps his face down. "We can't always go together, Peter."  
  
"I _know_ ," Peter says and he's whining, he knows he is and he can see Tony out of the corner of his eye just standing there looking at him and he hates it, hates how he feels like a little kid. Peter turns his face into Steve's chest. "I just— If I had more than really great hearing and stupid—stupid _enhanced_ _metabolism_ I could— When Dad can't."  
  
"Peter, we've talked about this," Steve says gently. "You don't need enhancements to make you capable. You're fast and powerful and _healthy_ and you're going to be formidable one day, but you're still a kid _._ If you want this when you're older, your Dad and I won't stop you. I can't tell you how proud it makes me that you want to help people and look out for your Dad and I, but you've got school and there's no hurry."

"I know, I just— _hate it_."

"I know you do," Steve says and smooths his hand over Peter's head. "Your time will come faster than you think."

Peter stares down at his lap and the kitchen is quiet aside from the bubbling pot on the stove. He brushes his fingers over the Band-Aids. It’s coming a lot faster than they think, too.

Then Tony says, "Isn't anyone going to ask how my day was?"

Peter snorts into Steve's chest and just like that the gloomy silence is gone.

"Nobody's asked how anyone's day was, Tony," Steve points out.

"Well, then I should be first," he says primly, pouring the steaming pot of pasta into a colander in the sink.

Peter grins when Steve rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "How was your day, Tony?"

"Oh, you know," Tony says and gives the spaghetti a toss. "Same ol' same ol'. Boring board meeting. Even more boring shareholder's meeting. Berated by Pepper for falling asleep during said meetings. Not that any of those old frauds would know; mirrored shades, Pete, they'll save your life."

"You're a terrible role-model, you know that, Dad? Like, really awful."

Tony turns and flashes a grin at Peter before his eyelids drop to half-mast and he tips his chin at Steve. "That's what you've got your dad for. Evens out." Peter really wishes he wasn't old enough to recognize it when Tony's smoldering.

Steve gives him a look that clearly says, _I know what you're doing. Stop it._

But of course Dad's grin just gets _more_ predatory.

Then he misses the pot a little as he's pouring the spaghetti back in and he curses as a handful of noodles tumble down his front. "Shit, not my Armani—ow, shit those are hot! Ow!"

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh and Peter cracks up, waving his hand when Steve starts to get to his feet. "No, no, I got it, Dad."

Tony's cursing, shaking his leg, and there are noodles clinging to the inseam of his slacks and puddled on the floor. "Pete— Goddamn it, DUM-E, where are you, you useless piece of junk—"

"Yeah, I can finish," Peter says, still chuckling as he gathers up the noodles. DUM-E joins him then, beeping and bumping into his shoulder. He's waving a sponge in his claw and Peter pats him, says, "Thanks, DUM-E."

"Coddler!" Dad yells as he makes his way to the bedroom to change. Peter pours the spaghetti sauce into the pan and stirs it in while DUM-E motors back and forth over the spill. Steve makes a fond noise of exasperation and for a minute, the kitchen is quiet again.

"So...what happened in Cleveland?" Peter eventually asks, glancing back over his shoulder and trying for casual.

Steve gives a slow, weary shrug. "A group of about a dozen militant fascists were building a bomb on a rooftop. A couple of them were mutants so the Cleveland police couldn't handle it. Bruce came along in case things got messy and your Uncle Clint and I tried to capture them with minimum use of force." He looks down at the bar top. "We managed it with most, but there were two ordinary men and one mutant who just wouldn't come quietly. The men were throwing _grenades_ at us, off the building down into the streets and we couldn't get to them. I had to ask Clint to—well." Steve looks tired and Peter totally, totally useless. "The last mutant was the worst of all of them. He had these—whips coming out of his wrists that he could control." His dad touches the line of stitches on his forehead and Peter knows the wound is from one of those whips, can almost picture it happening.

He flinches away from the thought and starts dishing out the spaghetti.

Dad takes a breath and says, "But we stopped them. They're not going to hurt anyone else and that's what matters."

"I'm sure you handled it flawlessly," comes Tony's voice and Peter looks up to see him in sweats and an old t-shirt, laying a kiss on Steve's cheek.

Steve smiles and curls his hand around the one Tony's laid on the counter top. "Thanks."

Tony offers him a faint smile in return and slides his hand up the back of Steve's neck and into his hair, giving the back of his head a rub like he's a puppy. "So, Bambi? Dinner? Yeah? I'm starving."

"Only if you guys promise to stop making goo-goo eyes at each other for the duration."

Tony gasps in mock-affront, putting a hand over the arc reactor.

Steve nods in agreement. "Done."

Peter looks to Tony with raised eyebrows and his dad huffs. "Blackmailed by my own kid, geez, that's fantastic, really. Kudos to us on the child-rearing. Bang-up job we did here, Steve."

"Tony," Steve chastises, but Tony ignores him and says, "All right, all right, no goo-goo eyes. Gimme."

Peter grins and hands over their bowls. The three of them migrate to the table, Tony watching with sharp, displeased eyes as Steve hoists himself up and then limps over, favoring his leg even more heavily than when they'd come in. He settles into his usual chair and he's not grimacing or anything when he looks up and says, "What about your day, Peter? You hardly said a word about your trip to OsCorp. You've been looking forward to it for weeks."

Dinner at the table is their thing. Steve insists that the three of them sit down and eat dinner together every night. If he had his way they'd do it for breakfast, too, but Tony's only willing to concede so much, so it's usually Peter and Steve at breakfast, Tony breezing in and out if they're lucky. But Dad says dinner time is Family Time. He knows neither Tony nor Peter is comfortable when they're not multitasking, so he allows them to bring projects to the table as long as they're capable of carrying on a conversation while they work and eat while the food's hot. It's a pretty good system, Peter thinks.

"I still can't believe you're into _OsCorp,_ " Tony gripes. "Those bozos wouldn't know a technological advancement if it did a pirouette wearing a frilly tutu and bit them in the ass."

Steve glares at him. Peter rolls his eyes because he's heard this about _a thousand times._ "They're the leading bio-mechanical technology company in the world, Dad."

"Exactly!"

Peter rolls his eyes again and turns to face Steve more fully, ignoring the way Tony mutters, "Maturity e-course, my ass."

"It was great, Dad. They're doing a lot of really cool stuff there. I couldn't take a lot of pictures because, you know, patents and stuff—"

"Secret illegal experiments," Tony cuts in under his breath.

"—but I got some pretty cool shots that I'll have to show you."

"More of Gwen?" Steve says, doing a half-hearted job of stifling his smile.

Peter can feel the blood rush to his face. "Dad!"

"She's a pretty girl, I can see why you like taking pictures of her is all," Dad says, but he looks ready to laugh.

"Gwen is— We're just— It's not _like_ that, Dad—"

Tony raises an eyebrow and draws his fork out of his mouth, says, "Yeah, we _should_ talk about Gwen."

Peter groans and buries his head in his elbows. "Dad, can you _not_. Please, I'm begging you."

"Tony," Steve says, his voice hard.

"That girl—"

  
"Oh my god, Dad, there's nothing wrong with Gwen. Her dad's a police chief!"

" _That girl,_ " Tony goes on viciously, raising his voice to drown Peter out, "is trouble. You should have more than one friend, Peter!"

"I don't need any other friends, nobody else gets me—"  
  
"Ha, 'gets you', what's there to get? You're a great kid! Period. And don't even get me started on the kid-of-a-police-chief bullshit. In my experience it's the kids of police chiefs who get in more trouble than the rest because they know just how hard they can push! And I have a _lot_ of experience."  
  
"Tony, that's enough!" Steve barks and then winces. He drops back into his chair from where he's half-risen, teeth gritted.  
  
"Dad?" Peter says, voice rising.  
  
"I'm fine," Steve breathes.

"I'll get an ice pack," Peter says and hurries to the fridge to dig one up. When he comes back, Tony is stabbing the remaining spaghetti in his bowl, staring too intently at it while Steve watches on. Peter ignores him as he hands the icepack over to Steve.

" _Anyway_ ," Steve says, obviously putting an end to that thread of conversation.

"Yeah, _anyway_ ," Peter says, giving Tony a pointed look that he raises his eyebrows and hands to. "In conclusion, Gwen is amazing and Dad is an ass."

Tony's eyes snap up, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth, but Steve shifts, clearing his throat and some of the sharpness fades out of his expression. "Yeah," he mutters, "guess that's been going on too long now to hope for much."

Gwen _is_ amazing, and his dad will come around eventually, Peter knows it. For now, he's got both his dads and they're okay and he's going to be a superhero soon. Gwen wants to Skype later tonight, and, amazingly, his spaghetti is pretty good.

Then they finish dinner and Steve almost takes a header tripping on Peter's bag.

"Oh, man," Peter mutters guiltily as Tony ducks under Steve's arm, his hand curling around to hover protectively over his dad's bruised hip. "I...meant to put that away. Really, I did."

"Steve? Steve, hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Tony," Steve says, even though he's wincing and leaning into him, his leg bent at the knee so he's not putting any weight on it. He looks up through his bangs and meets Peter's eyes. He doesn't seem mad, but Peter flinches, feeling about two inches tall.

Peter points his thumb over his shoulder. "Um. Bag goes in my room?" he says meekly.

"Please and thank you," Steve says and it's punctuated by a glare from Tony that just, _really_ drives the point home. It's amazing how guilty they can make him feel with a couple looks. Steve's not even actively _trying._

Peter scoops up his bag and his shoes, mumbling, "Sorry. I'm really sorry, Dad," before darting for his room.

"Next time just see they get there when you get home, huh?" Steve calls after him.

"Did I mention I'm really sorry?" Peter yells back and tosses his bag on the bed, flopping down next to it with a groan.

"I did tell you, sir," JARVIS says and Peter pulls his pillow over his head.

"Shut up, JARVIS."

He lays there for a few minutes feeling crummy and entertaining bitter thoughts like _that's why they won't let you train, idiot_ and _Captain America Killed by His Own Son,_ _Pepper'd love that. She thinks Tony's hard to handle, ha._

He has to do better, or even having the powers won't make them let him be an Avenger. He's worrying at his lip with his teeth when he hears a voice too high to be either of his dads.

"AUNTIE!" he shouts and throws himself off the bed, pounding out into the living room. Aunt Natasha is there, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face free of make-up.

_"Peter,"_ she warns, holding out a hand and makes a slight twitchy movement, like she's going to duck behind Tony, but Peter doesn't slow down. He closes the distance between them and scoops her up, grinning, arms wrapped tight around her knees and she lets out a cut-off shriek as he spins her around, her fingers digging into his shoulders. When a laugh bubbles out of her throat he lets her down.

"Hey, Aunt Nat." Natasha smiles as he kisses her cheek and Peter just smirks when he catches Tony rolling his eyes. He's just jealous because she likes him best.

"How was your field trip?" she asks and Peter freezes. Her eyes narrow a fraction. Crap, he's going to have to deflect. He forces himself not to rub the Band-Aids.

"It was fine," he says and she hums thoughtfully.

"Fine, huh? Weeks of non-stop chatter about it and it was 'fine'?"

Peter feels himself blush. God, how does she do that? "Yeah, I mean, you know," he mumbles, glancing at his dads. Thankfully they seem absorbed in each other. Natasha follows his gaze and makes another considering noise. She doesn't press, but Peter knows she's just postponing the interrogation. She'll corner him later. Having super-spies for family is terrible sometimes.

"Did Clint find you for dinner?" Steve asks, craning his neck to look at her over the back of the couch. "He left just before we started."

"He did," Natasha says, nodding. "Darcy's helping get him ready for bed."

Tony wrinkles his nose and tilts his head. "Did you drug him, Nat? Right up to the gills?"

Aunt Nat ignores him, instead reaching to stroke Steve's cheek with her thumb. "And how are you feeling?"

Steve smiles and tilts his face into her hand. "Doesn't feel good, but I'm all right, thanks for asking."

Natasha nods and turns her gaze to Peter, speculative gaze lingering. She doesn't ask, but Peter knows that's what the look's for. He shifts under her scrutiny and says, "So, um, we can still go to the ballet Monday, right?"

"Barring any Avengers-related fiascoes, yes," she says. "Make sure your homework is done."

Peter rolls his eyes. "My homework is _always_ done."

"That's impossible," Tony says, pointing the remote at him. "It can't _always_ be done, because it's not done when they give it to you. Or until you do it. Or in alternate universes where—"

"It'll be done," Peter says, raising his voice to drown out his dad.

"Good boy," Natasha says and cups his face with her hand before leaning up to kiss his cheek. "You're getting tall."

Peter shoots a smug grin at Tony who huffs and mutters something under his breath. "The Captain in me's starting to show, I guess."

"All right, I won't keep you. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right, Steve. Good night, boys. Get well quick, Steve."

"Lickety split," he says and Natasha rolls her eyes.

Peter sticks his hand in his pocket and finds his phone, which reminds him—Gwen. When he pulls it out there's an alert and a message preview that says _WHERE YOU AT, BOO?_ He grins, calling an absent-minded, "Later!" after Natasha as she boards the elevator. He'll figure out something else he can tell her Monday. It's tough to lie to them, but not impossible. They made the mistake of teaching him how to evade. He shouldn't have to lie for too long anyway. Maybe by Monday he'll be super already. He grins to himself at the thought.

Tony twists around where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, poking at the video player. "You gonna stick around for a movie, Bambi?"

Peter huffs. "So I can try to ignore you and Dad having a life-affirming make-out session? No, thanks."

That's actually probably not going to happen, 'cause Dad's already slumping down into the cushions, heavy-lidded, but Tony shrugs and says, "Your loss."

Peter leans over the back of the couch and hooks his arm around Steve's neck, giving him a gentle squeeze. "Night, Dad, love you."

He smiles and curls his hand around Peter's arm. "Sleep well, Peter."

Before he can extricate himself, Tony's bounced up and joined them. He grabs Peter's head in both hands and smacks a big wet one, right on his cheek.

"Ugh, gross, Dad," Peter whines, rubbing at it.

Tony just grins. "Night, Punkin'."

Peter tries his best to retreat to his room like he's not in a hurry; he doesn't want to hurt their feelings, but Gwen's waiting for him!

By the time he's nearly made it to his door he can hear the low murmur of his dads' voices and the soft sounds of kissing. He makes a break for it. They'll never miss him anyhow.

~

 

Natasha greets Clint and Darcy with the usual chaste kisses and Darcy tips her head back onto the back of the couch to watch her as she moves into the kitchen. It's been a long day and Natasha is looking forward to a drink.

Their relationship is what most people consider complicated. Natasha thinks it's simple really. The three of them are in love, and Clint and Darcy enjoy having sex. She doesn't. There's not much complicated about that, but if anyone knows how foolish people can be, it's her.

"How's he doing?" Natasha asks, reaching into the freezer for her stash.

Her mouth twitches in amusement when Clint replies, "He's _super._ "

Darcy smirks and Natasha takes a moment to admire the long, exposed curve of her throat. She may not care for sex, but she has eyes and Darcy is stunning. "Not bitching anymore," Darcy says. "Drugs have kicked in."

"I love drugs," Clint contributes fervently.

Darcy pats his chest. "I know you do, babe."

Natasha drinks the vodka and fixes herself a smoothie—a habit she's picked up from Tony, much to her chagrin—then returns to the couch to curl up opposite Darcy, lifting Clint's feet into her lap. He smiles dopily at her. "Nat! Na-tat-tat. Nnnaaat."

"Hi," she says. Darcy's smile has gone brittle and Natasha leans over to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.

Darcy glances at her, a little reluctant, and then says quietly, "I thought he was okay? Usually he doesn't need the strong stuff when you say he's okay."

"He's fine, I promise," Natasha says, with all the seriousness Darcy deserves from her.

"'m totally fine," Clint agrees and clumsily strokes Darcy's face. She huffs, but the strained lines fade from her face.

Clint wiggles, twisting his head in Darcy's lap as he gets more comfortable, and gives a few slow blinks. He'll be out like a light soon, which is the main reason he's taken the painkillers anyway. A good night's sleep will make a world of difference. "Hey," he says, drowsily, "y'saw Steve? He look okay to you?"

Natasha considers. "He seemed tired, but relaxed."

"Hmm," Clint murmurs, eyes drooping closed. "Okay."

Darcy runs her fingers through his hair and he sighs. "Did something happen on the mission?" she asks.

"Sorta."

"We should really put you to bed," Darcy says, amused.

"Ugh. Moving," Clint replies. Then he frowns. "What about Pete? D'you talk to him?"

"Just for a few minutes."

"He seem weird to you?"

"He's always weird," Darcy mutters and Clint pokes her (unintentionally) in the breast.

" _Than usual_ ," Clint says. "In a shifty kind of way. He was acting squirrelly when I's over there this afternoon."

The three of them have talked about children of their own before, but Darcy's never really wanted them and Clint's cripplingly afraid of fatherhood. Since she's not part of the baby-making process, Natasha doesn't feel like she has any ownership of that particular part of their relationship, and she doesn't want children badly enough to ask for them. So Peter is the closest thing they have. Which makes him the topic of far too many of their conversations.

"He did seem squirrelly," Natasha agrees with a wry smile. "We didn't talk long. He clearly didn't want his fathers to notice my interest. I'll probe again Monday."

Clint hums, a considering sort of noise. "He asked me to take him out again."

Natasha sighs. "Again?"

"Yuuup."

"That's starting to become a thing," Darcy says, wrinkling her nose. "Steve and Tony will freak if they find out."

"They know he wants to do it," Clint says, sounding annoyed. "He's told them only a gazillion times. If they'd just let him go out once or twice we could bank that fire. One of these days—"

Natasha squeezes his ankle. "You know why they won't."

Clint sighs gustily. "We don't have superpowers. _Tony_ doesn't have superpowers. It's just—dumb. 's really dumb. Kid's gonna snap and do something crazy. 'm telling you, one stake-out 's all it would take to convince 'm it's not as fun-times 's he thinks."

"We'll talk to them about it again. In the end it's up to them, though."

"Idiots," Clint mumbles affectionately.

~ Chapter Four ~

 

Sunday morning, Steve wakes up by increments. The first thing he registers is the slow, steady throb of the stitches across his forehead. He's a little stiff overall and his hip aches, though not nearly as bad as yesterday. The bed shifts under him and after a minute more of drifting between asleep and awake, he pries his eyes open.

Tony cocks his head and smiles down at him, props his chin on the heel of his hand. "Mornin', sunshine."

The shades are easing back, morning light coloring Tony's skin gold. Steve's responding smile is inevitable, like the sun coming up, breaking from somewhere deep inside him. "Morning," he murmurs, curling his fingers around Tony's wrist. "You watching me sleep?"

A smirk flashes across Tony's face. Steve likes how he can see all the hues of his eyes in this light. "Nope. Figured you'd wake up around now. You usually sleep late after a rough mission."

Steve frowns even as Tony's eyes move to his forehead. "What time is it?"

"Nine," Tony informs him casually.

" _Nine?_ " Steve groans and starts to push himself up, ignoring the way it makes his temples throb. "I meant to be up hours ago, Tony. JARVIS—"

"I canceled your wake up." Tony sits up, swinging his legs around so he can sit Indian style, his hand pressing down on Steve's shoulder. "Fifty-three stitches, Steve, not to mention the hip. You didn't think you were going for a run, did you?"

Steve sighs and lets Tony push him back down, covering his eyes with one hand. He hates missing his run.

"How's your head?" Tony asks after a long silence stretches between them.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. "It's throbbing," he tells Tony honestly. "Feels hot," he says, waving his hand over his forehead. "Itches."

"Good. Means it's healing, doesn't it?"

Again, Tony moves, this time scooching so his hip fits into the curve of Steve's side, the heavy band of his jeans poking into soft skin. Then he sets one hand down on Steve's other side and leans over him.

Steve opens his eyes and sees Tony's braced his other arm against the headboard. "That looks awkward," he says.

"It's not terribly comfortable," Tony agrees. "And if I stay this way for long, my back's going to give me hell. The view's pretty great though."

A grin fights to break across Steve's face and he brushes his hand up Tony's side, enjoying the way it makes a faint shiver ripple through him.

Tony dips his head and Steve lets his eyes fall closed as Tony lays careful kisses at either end of the line of stitches before pulling his arm away from the headboard and drawing his fingers through Steve's hair. Steve reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Tony's neck when he finally kisses his mouth, warm and slick and familiar.

When they part, Tony suggests, "Coffee, hm? Coffee and breakfast?"

Steve gives him a one-shouldered shrug and tips his head to the side, smiling. "I dunno, this is working okay for me."

Then his stomach growls, loud and insistent, and Tony falls back, laughing.

Steve's managed to prop himself up on his elbows without wincing too much by the time Tony rolls off the bed and says, "All right, Captain Garbage Disposal. Let's get you something to dispose of before you waste away before my very eyes."

Tony helps him sit and then waits, a warm presence at Steve's knee, while the pounding in his head fades. His hand rests around the back of Steve's neck, blunt fingers toying with the short hairs there. "JARVIS?"

"I have already put the coffee on, sir," JARVIS replies. "I took the liberty of having DUM-E prepare several stacks of waffles and there were no incidents to speak of."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Steve says fervently because now he's _starving_ at the prospect of food and just the faint scent of coffee seeping in under the door is making his mouth water.

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS says, amused.

"Peter?" Tony queries, providing his arm so Steve can lever his way to his feet.

"Still sleeping," JARVIS reports. "He retired to bed at 1:52 AM, so it is likely he will sleep into the afternoon, as usual."

"On the phone with Gwen?" Tony says and hangs on to Steve's hand as he takes the first few hobbling steps, his hip stiff and aching. It fades with each stride and by the time they make it to the end of the bed, Steve can walk without support, not that that makes him let go of Tony's hand.

"Of course, sir," JARVIS confirms. "Video chat."

Tony waves Steve off when they get out into the penthouse common area. "Go sit, I'll bring the chow."

So Steve does and Tony joins him after a couple of loud minutes in the kitchen, carrying a tray stacked with waffles, a bottle of syrup, a stick of butter, and a battered box of powdered sugar with a bowl of carelessly thrown together fruit. There are also two mugs of coffee and Steve gets a hold of his as soon as it's within reach, taking a gulp and savoring the way it sears his throat on the way down.

The morning is lazy and perfect. Tony stuffs Steve full of waffles and sprawls on his lap with a StarkPad after retrieving an ice pack for his hip. Steve watches Saturday morning cartoons, Tony complaining good-naturedly whenever Steve laughs, jostling Tony's head in the process. "I'm trying to be brilliant here," he says, "you're like a human earthquake," and Steve shushes him so he can hear Bugs Bunny take a pot-shot at Daffy. Then he cracks up, throwing his head back as he laughs.

Tony gives up about the fiftieth time this happens and growls, dropping the StarkPad on the floor before turning over onto his stomach and settling in while he complains. "Cartoons, honestly," he says, like they haven't been doing this for the last fifteen years. Like Tony wasn't the one who programmed these line-ups for Steve. "How old are you?"

"Looney Tunes is hilarious," Steve points out for what might honestly be the millionth time. Mickey Mouse comes on and, don't get him wrong, he loves Mickey, but Tony's driving him crazy, shifting and twitching around and over Steve's thighs, so Steve stops him wriggling and kisses him. They neck for almost half an hour before Tony pulls back and drags Steve's hands out from under his shirt, obviously cursing himself as he does it.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks and Tony sits back on Steve's knees, his own knees bookending Steve's hips.

He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. "Okay, look, Steve, ah..." He sighs again and meets Steve's eyes. "Clint gave me some more of the details about what happened in Cleveland—about some orders you gave—ow, hey, okay, ease up."

Steve realizes he's holding on to Tony's knee, digging his fingers in, and releases his grip with a flash of guilt. "Tony," he starts, but he has no idea what he wants to say.

Tony starts talking in a rush. "Look, what I'm saying is you're clearly compartmentalizing. Which is fine! Coping mechanism, yadda yadda, whatever, I totally get it, you know I do. I mean, hello, PTSD central, here. And I know it's at least in part because, you know, you're trying to protect me—which, adorable, by the way—and Peter, _sickeningly_ sweet on that count, my god, you really are the perfect father; and that's one of many reasons I love you, but you don't _have_ to. Be happy, I mean." He winces a little bit and Steve glances down to check that it's not him, his heart doing strange, lurching things in his chest. He can't tell if it's fear or affection causing it. Maybe both. Tony sighs again and plucks at the material of Steve's shirt, over his stomach. "Not that I don't love when you are, which's why I feel like a bastard bringing it up, but— It's okay to be sad, or upset, or both, or angry or _whatever._ Let it rip.I'm Iron Man, I can take it."

"Tony," Steve says and his voice comes out hoarse, his throat catching around the word.

"Come on," Tony wheedles, quiet and uncommonly earnest. "You put up with all my bullshit, Steve. The yelling and the squatting in the lab for days and the truckload of crippling insecurities, not to mention my vast and, in Fury's words, 'frankly terrifying' level of paranoia. The drinking. The emotional constipation. My general inability to take care of myself for extended periods of time. My reckless streak. You can stop me any time," he jokes feebly and Steve draws him closer, a pang of anxiety cutting through him.

"Tony, that's not—"

Tony doesn't let him seize the distraction though, he peeks up at him from under his eyelashes and gives a little shrug, his mouth pulling into a tiny smile that wrecks Steve. "Hey, it's fine. We've got complementary PTSD manifestations. We lucked out."

_Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it_ , Steve thinks and leans forward to put his forehead to Tony's chest, arms curling around his waist. He's quiet for a long time and Tony toys with Steve's hair, waiting patiently, until the words finally push themselves out of Steve's mouth.

"Clint added three new names to his list because of orders I gave. Three men died and I put that on Clint's conscience. I made the call, but he's the one who had to pull the trigger. What the _hell_ gives me the rightto do that? _"_ he asks at last, intending to leave it there, but Tony keeps _looking_ at him, dark-eyed and sympathetic, his full and unwavering attention fixed on Steve instead of a machine part or a StarkPad or a thousand and one other things, and Steve's nearly chokes on the words suddenly fighting to get out of him. He runs through the full spectrum of emotions Tony cited and then through a few more, ranting and lamenting into the warm pocket between their bodies till he feels wrung out.

When the words finally dry up, Tony squeezes his shoulders and says quietly, "See. Still right here."

Steve lets out an exhausted, slightly congested laugh. "Forehead smarts," he replies.

Tony hisses. "I bet. Head up. Let me see."

Steve lifts his head away from Tony's shoulder carefully, wincing at the way the stitches throb, tendrils of pain curling around the inside of his skull, pricking deeper.

"Yeah, the doc would not be stoked by how those look. Bruce would pitch a fit. I'm gonna get the rub and the pills; JARVIS, time?"

"One twenty-two, sir."

Steve blinks around at the sunny living room and says, "Wow, really?" He scrubs a hand over his eyes and winces as that accidentally pulls on his wound.

"Yes, sir."

"You hungry?" Tony asks, looking him over, and then waves his hand without waiting for a response. "What am I saying, of course you're hungry. Don't move, I'll get us something." He pats Steve's thigh and adds, "Lemme up, honey."

Steve releases him and Tony clambers off, glancing toward Peter's bedroom. "He still sleeping, JARVIS?" he asks, dutifully piling food on a plate once he's reached the kitchen, along with the antiseptic ointment, before bringing it back to Steve. He himself chugs down a pre-made shake. "If he's not up soon our plans are gonna be shot."

"He is still sleeping, sir," JARVIS confirms as Tony kneels on the cushions, squeezing a liberal amount of antiseptic onto his fingers. "Would you like me to wake him?"

"Nah, not yet," Tony says, dropping his gaze from Steve's forehead where he's applying ointment and giving Steve a look heavy with implication. "Give us another hour or so."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS agrees, even as Steve points a carrot stick at Tony and says firmly, " _No._ "

"You don't even know what I—"

"Of course I know what you, Tony," Steve says, biting the end off the carrot. "I'm eating."

"You can multitask," Tony purrs, looking at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

Steve laughs and says again, firm, " _No,_ Tony. Let me eat in peace."

Eventually, Tony does, in fact, relent and allow him to eat, but by that time the idea is solidly planted in Steve's mind and he can't focus on the food anymore.

"Dammit, Tony," he says and Tony grins, delighted, as Steve pins him to the couch.

"Mm, _yeah_ , Steve," he breathes, the cheeky ass, and Steve is in the middle of thoroughly kissing him, his t-shirt starting to make him feel overheated, when JARVIS murmurs, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but—" And then he cuts himself off.

Tony breaks away and squirms under Steve—not helpful at all—saying, "But what, JARVIS, what the hell."

"I think," JARVIS says, a little hesitant, "perhaps Peter may be oversleeping because he is unwell."

Both Steve and Tony go still for a second and then Steve sees Tony frown at the same time he does. Steve glances at his watch; Tony calls, "Time?"

"Two after three, sir," JARVIS replies and Steve's watch confirms it. He shares a look with Tony.

"Why do you say that, JARVIS?" Steve asks, easing back onto his knees as Tony pulls out from under him into a sitting position, his eyes turning toward Peter's door.

"He appears to have a fever," JARVIS replies and then adds quickly: "A low fever. Approximately 99.8 degrees Fahrenheit."

"You think he really caught something?" Steve asks and he's already moving to his feet, headed for Peter's room.

Tony shrugs. "It happens. His immune system's better than most, but that doesn't mean he can't get sick."

Steve pauses at the door, folding his arms around himself. "Should I wake him up?"

Tony's gaze goes distant as he does some mental calculations. "He's been asleep for twelve hours now. Theoretically, that should be enough, even for a teenager. Could be his body's trying to fight the infection. Give him another hour," he suggests at last.

Steve's not thrilled about that advice. He grimaces and then takes the last few steps in haste, slipping the door open so he can peek inside. It's dark as night and Steve's eyes take a moment to adjust before he can find the lump on the bed that is Peter.

"Relax, Steve. I'm sure he's fine," Tony calls.

But the easy intimacy of the morning is gone.

~ Chapter Five ~

  
"Peter. ...Peter. Hey, kiddo, can you hear me? ….Peter?"

Peter groans and drags a pillow over his head. "Dad, 's too early, go'way," he says.

There's a brief silence and Peter starts to drift off again. Then he feels a hand on his elbow. His other dad says, slowly, "Peter, it's five PM."

Peter's brow furrows because that makes no sense. He can't have been out for more than a few minutes. He's still so tired.

" _Peter_ ," Tony says, his voice sharp with worry and Peter can't ignore that. He tries to open his eyes, to wake up; it's like trying to pull himself out of a thick, dark quagmire; it sucks him back down if he lets up at all.

He finally gets his eyes open and nearly loses what he's gained when he blinks and the darkness creeps over him again. _Why'm I so tired?_ A little jolt of fear gives him the push he needs to open them fully. Tony's head is poking over the edge of the bed, his hand on Peter's elbow. His hair's absolutely nuts, standing on end in every direction. The bed shifts at Peter's hip and he forces his eyes up. Steve looks back at him, naked concern on his face. "Hey there," he says.

"Hey, Dad," Peter rasps and he wants to turn and sit up so he can look at both of them properly, but his limbs feel like they're made of cement.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks.

"Tired," Peter mumbles; it's too much effort for more. "'S really five o'clock?"

"It really is," Tony says and now that Peter's paying attention, his body's lodging other complaints. "Just tired?"

"H've to pee," he says and Tony snorts. "Feel heavy."

"You okay to get up?" Steve says, curling a helpful hand around his bicep, his blue eyes watchful. The skin between the stitches on his forehead is already starting to look smoother and pinker.

"Kinda stiff," Peter says and then adds, "but I _really_ have to pee." He gets a pair of chuckles that are half-hearted at best. Steve helps him get upright and Tony stands up and back, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter really just wants to flop back down and go back to sleep, but he swings his legs out and Steve stands with him, not touching, but watching like he's channeling Uncle Clint. "See," Peter says when he's on his feet. "I'm good." And he does feel a little better, like he's sloughing off the fatigue.

"Mhm," Tony says skeptically. "You need a hand in there, Bambi?"

"Ew, no, absolutely not. That is the _last_ thing I need, Dad," Peter tells him, shuddering.

He can feel their gazes on him all the way to the bathroom.

As he relieves himself Peter's heart starts to pound sluggishly. This must mean the bite is working. He's tired because his body's trying to cope with what's happening.

He has to tell Scabel.

When he emerges and shuffles into the living room they're both there, but they're trying too hard to look casual and Peter's pretty sure they were loitering outside the bathroom until about two seconds ago.

"Hungry?" Tony says, chipper.

"Yeah," Peter says, surprised to find he's _starving._ He's barely gotten his butt in a chair when Steve puts a plate down in front of him. "Uh, wow. Thanks, Dad. Are we adding instant food prep to your list of heroic abilities?"

"I was making dinner before we decided to wake you up, wise guy," Steve replies, giving him a look. "Eat." Peter tosses him a lazy salute even though he knows it drives Steve crazy; it's a bad habit he picked up from Tony and he feels a little bad when his dad scowls. He gets to work on the plate to make it up to him.

He's already swallowed three or four bites when he realizes that neither of his dads is eating themselves. Tony's got his hip against the counter, absently drying dishes as Steve hands them to him, but they're both watching him like he's going to burst into flames any second.

"What?" he says and reaches up to touch his face. "Am I growing mandibles or something?"

"No," is Tony's immediate volley. "There were just a few torturous minutes earlier when you looked like you were dead and we couldn't get you to wake up, that's all."

Steve's hands tighten around a bowl he's washing and it shatters. He swears and snaps, "Don't move!" at Tony, who's barefoot.

Amazingly, Dad does as he's told and stays put.

"Your freaked us out, kiddo. Maybe just hold off on the smartass comments for a bit, huh?" he says, eyes serious, as Steve digs the dustpan out from the cabinet under the sink and Peter immediately feels terrible. It's not often that Tony's the one telling him to watch his mouth.

He chokes down the bite he's just taken and it settles sour in his belly. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Steve stops, letting his head drop, and sighs. He puts the dustpan and brush down and covers his face for a second before standing, his expression twisted. "Peter, no. That's not—we know that's how you cope when you're nervous and I'm sorry." He shrugs helplessly. "Maybe I'm tense." Tony shifts, starting to move toward him and Steve throws a glare over his shoulder. "I told you not to move."

Tony holds his hands up, eyebrows popping toward his hairline. "Oo-kay. Not moving. Nope. Staying right where I am."

"But—I'm a teenager. That's normal, right? Teenagers sleep all day all the time! It's our biological imperative!"

Tony's shoulders creep toward his ears, hands waving wildly. "Well, yeah, but it doesn't normally take five minutes to wake you up after you sleep for eighteen hours! What if you contracted mono from that Stacy kid?"

"Dad!"

_"_ Tony! _"_

It occurs to Tony then who he's talking to and he flusters, shuffles his feet and— " _Fuck!_ OW!"

The change snaps over Steve's face so fast Peter is sure he's blinked. "Hold _still,"_ Captain Rogers orders. "Don't move," and then he lifts Tony, as if he weighs as much as Peter—less even, and puts him on the counter.

"Steve," Tony complains, pulling his foot up on his knee to check it out. "Dial it back. I'm fine. Aside from being distracted by our son's sordid personal life, I mean."

But he's hissing with pain as he prods at it and there's probably blood.

"It's not _mono_ , oh my god, Dad," Peter says. The fact that he's still tired doesn't mean he has _mono_.

"Just. Stay—there," Cap says. Peter hears: _Stay where I put you._ Then Steve sighs and his dad is back, weary and put-upon. "Finish your dinner, Peter."

Peter's not really hungry anymore, but he tries anyway.

"Don't think I need stitches," Tony says, poking at the bottom of his foot and making faces while Steve finishes cleaning up the bowl shards.

"I'll be the judge of that."

Tony huffs. "I have had my share of injuries, you know. I am capable of assessing a wound. I do worse than this in the lab all the time. Not to mention, you know, crime fighting and saving the world."

Steve puts the dustpan back under the sink and looks up at him as he pulls out the first aid kit. "Just be quiet and let me take care of it, Tony," he snaps and Peter's eyebrows go up along with Tony's. Dad gets stern with them all the time, but he never snaps.

"Okay," Tony says slowly, "you've been on edge since yesterday. This definitely isn't about Pete, or the bowl, or the sass, or the _minor_ explosion from earlier, which means it's gotta be job-related." He gives Dad an assessing look and then says, careful, "Does this have anything to do with Cleveland?"

Peter waits for Steve's reaction, but he's silent and Peter can't get a read off of his broad back as he stands, favoring his bruised hip. Dad must see something in his face though, because his expression softens.

"Hey," he says, voice gentle, "hey, hey, come here."

Steve sets the first aid kit on the counter at Tony's hip and stands just out of reach, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes deliberately fixed on the fridge. "What, Tony."

"I said _here_ ," Tony says and leans forward to hook two fingers in his belt, then pulls Steve forward until he's standing between his knees.

"Tony," Steve says, his arms are still crossed but looser, his eyes darting reluctantly to Tony's face. Peter tries to focus on his dinner, but it's really not that appetizing anymore now that it's cold. He pokes at his noodles.

Tony's shoulders hop in a little shrug and he says casually, "You trust me right?"

Steve just gives him a look. "Against my better judgment."

"And that's probably your worst lapse in judgment, in what, ever? So tell me what's still bugging you."

His dad's quiet so long that Peter doesn't think he's going to answer when he finally bursts, "Clint specifically pulled you aside to tell you about the orders I gave—I made the wrong call and you're my second in command so of course he'd go to you if my judgment was compromised—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, _no_. Steve. What? No. He told me about the orders because he was worried you were going to do _this._ He told me you did what you had to do, _because you always do,_ but that it involved eliminating some guys who wouldn't play nice and you take it personally every time and you let it eat at you, exactly like you're doing _right now_. Gotta say, he's got you pegged."

"I don't always do the right thing, Tony," Steve says quietly, eyes on his hands resting on Tony's knees.

Tony gives him a look. "What did Clint and Bruce tell you?"

"That I made the right call," Steve mutters.

"Well, there you go then. That's three people you trust telling you you're being an idiot."

"You're being an idiot, Dad," Peter puts in, for good measure, and his dads glance over at him, Tony catching his eye and smiling.

"Make that four people you trust," he amends and gives Steve a chastising look. "So knock it off. Idiocy doesn't look good on you."

Steve huffs in reluctant amusement and he nods; Tony smiles, then they're kissing and ew.

"Gross, guys, seriously? I have to eat here in the future."

Tony flips him off, pulls Steve closer, and Peter groans.

"Really?"

He turns around and tries to tune them out after that. After a minute or so, Tony says, a little breathless—ew ew ew no _why_ — "This is what a healthy relationship looks like, kiddo. Soak it in."

"You guys are seriously the _worst,"_ Peter grumbles.

"Your dad's right," Steve says and he sounds a lot happier, which isn't horrible, or it wouldn't be if it weren't for _kissing_.

Peter feels a little nauseated. "I'm going to throw up," he announces.

His dads just laugh. Jerks.

~

 

Even though he goes to bed around ten, Peter again struggles to wake up Monday morning. Almost nineteen hours out of the last twenty-four and he's still tired!

It's gotta be related to the bite.

The area around it is a little red and patchy looking. He covers it up with a fresh Band-Aid and then slings his bag over his shoulder. Thank God JARVIS isn't allowed to monitor his room all the time.

"How are you feeling this morning, Sir?" JARVIS asks as he heads out into the living room and Peter shrugs, answering honestly, "Still really tired, but okay."

"Still tired, huh?" Steve says. He's sitting at the kitchen bar eating oatmeal. "Have you been having nightmares again?"

Peter grimaces and moves to the fridge to get some juice and a thing of yogurt. His nightmares were because he was a little kid. He's older now and can handle this stuff. Even if he _were_ having them, he probably wouldn't tell his dads. It would just give them one more reason why he's not able to pull his weight. "No, Dad," he says, "no nightmares. I'm fine, really."

"All right, all right," Steve says, hands raised in surrender. He wipes his mouth and gets up to put his bowl and mug in the sink, leaning over to kiss Peter's head as he chooses a banana from the fruit bowl.

"Gross, Dad," he complains, waving the banana at him.

Steve ignores him. "I'm going to HQ. I've got to do a TV interview this afternoon with your dad, so we'll probably be home late. Go by Bruce and Betty's for dinner."

"You just want them to check me out," Peter accuses. "I'm on to you!"

Steve just grins at him and waves. "Have a good day, Peter!"

School is torturous as usual, with the added bonus of being ready to fall asleep any second. He nods off in History, which gets him in trouble with Mister Richter, and then Flash corners him near the gym before lunch and he's too tired to even bother standing up to him. He's cranky and an off-the-cuff comment gets him a bloody lip, which is just great. His dads are going to have fits.

"What is going on with you today?" Gwen asks at lunch, dabbing at it with an ice cube wrapped in a paper towel.

He winces as a yawn cracks open the coagulating cut _yet again_. "I dunno, I'm just tired. Guess I didn't sleep too well."

He hopes this lethargy won't last too long, they've got an exam in Richter's class next week and History is his worst subject.

An hour and a half later he falls asleep in Biology.

~ Chapter Six ~

 

Steve is sitting in a make-up chair next to Tony in a studio downtown when his phone starts blaring the alarm klaxxon set for Peter's school number.

Tony looks up from his tablet and frowns.

"Excuse me, I have to get this," Steve says and the make-up artist nods.

"Just hail me when you're ready."

Tony doesn't bother sending his guy away. "Hello?" Steve says, careful not to let the phone touch his skin.

" _Captain Rogers, hello, this is Nurse Mahler with Midtown High School? Peter seems to be feeling unwell, are you available to come pick him up?_ "

"Ah, no," Steve says, frowning. "What do you mean he's feeling unwell?"

To his left, Tony leans forward, spine stiffening.

" _He fell asleep during his sixth period class and his teacher was unable to wake him."_

"What?" Steve demands and Tony waves his hands, finally shooing away his own make-up artist.

"What is it what happened?" he hisses.

" _It's all right, sir, we were able to rouse him with smelling salts and he's awake now, though he does seem very groggy. You may want to take him to see his primary care physician. I can call Mister Stark—"_

"No, he's here with me," Steve says, and then to Tony: "Peter fell asleep in class. They had to use salts to wake him up."

Tony's mouth drops open.

"You can call Happy, he should be available to pick Peter up—" Steve starts, but Tony waves him off.

"Happy's with Pepper this afternoon, Darcy was gonna pick him up on her way home. He had yearbook."

"Shit," Steve says, and then blushes when he realizes what he's said and to whom. "Sorry. I'm sorry. We're just trying to figure out who's available."

" _Don't worry, Captain,"_ the nurse says, sounding amused.

"Bruce," Tony says, tapping away at the tablet. "I'm messaging him now, I think he's in the lab today. He can probably pick Peter up and check him out, too." His fingers hesitate and Tony looks up. "You think he's really sick?"

"Do you think he's trying to get out of school?" Steve replies, and Tony snorts.

"Right, well Bruce can figure it out. He says that's fine."

"Great," Steve says, relieved. "Tell him thank you. Nurse Mahler? Peter's uncle Bruce will be able to pick him up."

" _This is the same Bruce listed in Peter's file under 'Doctor Bruce Banner'?"_

"Yes," Steve confirms.

" _Okay. Peter's resting in the clinic now, tell Doctor Banner there's no rush, we'll take care of him until he arrives."_

"Thank you."

"Mono,"Tony says when Steve hangs up. "I'm telling you it's that Stacy kid."

"Wouldn't she have had to have, I don't know, been sick, Tony?"

"She could be a carrier, Captain Smartass," Tony shoots back.

"They're going to end up seeing each other," Steve says, waving his hand to get the attention of the make-up artists. "You're going to have to get used to the idea at some point, Tony."

"Like hell," he mutters.

 

~

 

Bruce is pleased to have been asked. It's silly, maybe, but he and Betty had agreed early on that they would take steps to avoid bringing her into contact with his bodily fluids, since they know for sure his blood is dangerous. Betty's not fully convinced his semen is, too, but she's never protested the precautions Bruce takes. It means they'll never have children.

He's torn between gratitude and sorrow, because he'd like children, he would. But he's glad he'll never have to find out if he'd have followed in the footsteps of his own father.

It bothers him sometimes that he can't give Betty that, that he can't give her everything she wants, but he's not stupid either and he knows Betty picked him, fought tooth and nail to be with him. It makes him sickeningly grateful.

Anyway, Peter is the son they'll never have, and he's happy to have the chance to take part in some of the domestics.

"Hi," he says, once he's inside the school office, eyes sliding around the room, cataloging what he sees. "Bruce Banner? I'm here to pick up Peter."

The man sitting at the desk points at a clipboard sitting on the counter between them. "Fill out the sign out form. I need to see your ID and—" He pulls out a StarkPad. "—I'll need a palm scan."

Bruce hands over his ID, which the man scrutinizes very carefully, checking it under a UV light and then spending several long seconds comparing Bruce's face to the photo printed on it, and then the signature to the one he leaves on the form as well. The tablet scans his palm and the man examines that, too. Steve and Tony will be happy to know that their safety measures are being so thoroughly employed.

"Okay, Doctor Banner, just one more thing. Complete the pass phrase, please: Triceratops eat ice cream for lunch."

"And heaps of bacon for dinner."

He makes a check on the form Bruce filled out and then says, "Right this way."

Peter is lying on one of the thin paper-covered beds in the nurses' clinic. He looks mostly asleep. It's amazing how quickly he's grown.

Bruce puts a gentle hand on his side and Peter's eyes flutter open a little. "Peter? Hey, it's Bruce. Your dads sent me to come take you home."

Peter mumbles and shifts, frowning. "Really?"

"Really. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I'm just—" He yawns. "—really tired."

"I see that," Bruce says, amused. "Come on, let's get you home and into bed. We'll see if we can head your dads' wild imaginations off before they're convinced you've got bubonic plague."

Peter snorts, exactly the way Tony does. "Twenty bucks says it's too late."

~

 

Uncle Bruce is a lot less fussy than his dads would be, and Peter's glad about that. He really is tired and it's exhausting when his dads get all protective and overbearing. His aunts and uncles say it's because Peter's their only kid, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.

Bruce shepherds him up to bed and does a quick, basic exam. Peter makes sure to offer his offer his right hand instead of his spider-bitten left when he takes his pulse. He takes a swab from Peter's mouth and says, "No signs of inflammation or discharge anywhere, but I'll run this and see if I find anything. Did you actually sleep last night?"

Peter thinks they'll want to keep poking if he says he did, so he grimaces and lies through his teeth, "Uh. Maybe not as much as I should have?"

Bruce huffs, wryly amused, and says, "Okay, Mini-Tony. Get some rest."

Peter has a vague recollection of Tony sitting on the edge of his bed sometime later, muttering, "We should ground you for this, you little cretin."

Peter dreams about standing between his dads and a multi-limbed menace.

 

~

Later that night, Tony's only just closed his eyes when JARVIS murmurs, "Sir."

His eyes pop open. "Peter?"

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies and there's something like worry in the modulation of his voice that catapults Tony out of bed. Steve doesn't move, heedless of the noise and the movement, his body trained to sleep and sleep good when given the opportunity.

The tile floors are cool against Tony's bare feet, which slap noisily as he runs for Peter's bedroom.

He throws open the door and finds the lights up—thank you, JARVIS—and Peter leaning over the side of his bed. Puke drips sluggishly down the sheets to a puddle on the floor. "Eugh," Tony says and Peter lets out a strangled sort of laugh before he gags and heaves again.

Well, it's probably not mono.

"Steve!" he yells, knowing that will be enough, and crawls up the bed behind Peter, puts his hand right in the middle of the kid's bony back. He's warm even through the material of his t-shirt. So much for Bruce's sleep-deprivation theory.

"Lookin' good, kiddo," he says and Peter groans, the sound vibrating against Tony's palm.

"What happened?" comes Steve's voice, breathless. Pure fear reaction. The serum makes it nearly impossible for him to fatigue like that, especially not in the fifty feet or so between here and their bedroom.

"Looks like Bambi's definitely caught a bug," Tony says and Steve wipes a hand over his mouth. "Keep a lid on it, Cap, he's all right, aren't you, buddy?"

The noise he gets from Peter in response is a moan-whimper type thing that makes his gut twist. Tony knows _this_ brand of misery all too well. "Think you're about spent?" he asks, gentler.

"Think so," Peter mutters and spits weakly, grimacing.

"Okay, we're gonna get you up outta this mess and get you set up in the bathroom so you can have some cool porcelain to cling to. JARVIS, send in the 'bots to take care of this. And send Bruce up, will you?"

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies.

"All right," Tony says decisively. "Let's get you out of this fabulously vomit-adorned shirt." He hooks his hands under Peter's arms and drags him upright, which actually takes some serious effort, the kid may be skinny, but he's not handling his own weight at the moment. He's floppy and loose-limbed and he sinks back against Tony's chest as soon as he moves his hands, his head lolling back on Tony's shoulder.

A groan seeps out of his chest and Tony recognizes the sound for the _omg-going-to-puke_ warning sign it is. "Yeah, all right, I know, buddy. Shallow breaths, swallow. Just keep it under control for another second." He tugs Peter's shirt up and pulls it off. "You're lucky I have a lot of experience with vomit," he informs him cheerfully and Peter makes a noise of disgust. The muscles in his torso make a distinctive upward motion and Tony pushes Peter forward so when he retches, what he brings up goes on the floor and not on their persons. He rubs the heel of his hand along Peter's spine in long, circular motions, waiting the spasms out. When the puking finally stops, Peter hangs in Tony's grip, panting and shivering. Tony draws him back, subdued, and says, "Hey, Steve, you wanna do the honors?"

Steve doesn't say anything, but the bed sinks under his weight a second later. Tony helps turn Peter onto his back and then Steve slips his arms under his knees and around his back, picks him up like he's still five-years-old. Steve draws him close to his chest, presses his lips to the crown of Peter's head and Peter leans into him, wraps his hand around the fabric of his t-shirt. Tony can't resist touching both of them, brushing back Peter's hair and squeezing Steve's shoulder.

No one says a word, but he and Steve head straight for their bathroom, Tony pausing to haul the comforter off of their bed before darting in ahead of Steve to dump it next to the toilet. He's spent his fair share of nights hugging the toilet bowl, so he knows it's better with something soft and warm to curl up in between puking jags.

"Dad— Dad— Put me down—" Peter chokes and Steve just about drops him to get him to the floor as fast as he can. Peter drags himself over the bowl and as he starts heaving, Tony sees Steve's abs clench sympathetically.

"Hand me a washcloth, Tony? Damp," Steve says quietly, crouching and putting a hand on Peter's lower back. Tony digs a washcloth out of one of the drawers by the sink and wets it, all without ever looking away from them. Watching Steve take care of Peter has never failed to short out his lungs. It's bittersweet; this sharp lance of pain that strikes him when he wonders why his father didn't do—why he wasn't important enough—but then it's this _balloon,_ expanded to bursting inside him, so damn grateful that even if he can't, Steve makes sure Peter gets everything he never did.

He holds the dripping washcloth out, still staring, and Steve shoots him a look from under his brows—pure exasperation—and wrings it out over the tub. By now Peter's bowed over the seat, breathing like he's just run a marathon, spitting weakly and clumsily every so often. Steve puts the rag to the back of Peter's neck and Peter groans softly, bending forward until his forehead's resting against the back, his eyes closed. Steve wipes along the sides of his face and then lays the washcloth across the back of Peter's neck and draws his fingers through Peter's hair, peering at his face, ever watchful. "Doin' okay, pal?"

"Okay's I can be," Peter mumbles, his voice echoing up out of the toilet bowl. "This sucks."

"Blows, actually," Tony says automatically. "Blows chunks, if we're going to be specific, and of course we should be, that's only scientific."

Peter groans and turns his head enough that he can glare up at Tony through one eye. "You did not. You did not just."

Tony pulls one hand from the crook of his elbow so he can wave it around. "What, it's apropos."

Steve crouches down to press the back of one hand to Peter's forehead, shifting it to Peter's temple after a moment.

"His temperature has been hovering at 100.4 degrees, Captain," JARVIS informs them.

Steve nods in acknowledgment, but his hand stays on Peter's head a beat longer. He once explained to Tony it was something his mother had done when he was sick as a kid. "All right," he says at last. "You're going to need liquids."

~ Chapter Seven ~

After tailing Steve to the kitchen and helping him bring back an absurd amount of liquids—seriously, there is no way Peter is going to drink two different flavors of Gatorade, a bottle of ginger ale, a glass of water, _and_ a Tetra Pak of pineapple-coconut water—plus a box of crackers, Tony leans against the door jamb to watch while Steve tries (and fails) to not fuss.

"Call if you need anything," he says and Peter gives him a long-suffering look.

"Okay, Dad. I'm fine. Really."

"C'mon, Rogers," Tony says, because the energy from jumping out of bed has officially abandoned him and he is _beat._ Harvey's expecting him at eight AM because he's a damn sadist and after that he's expected in Lab Four to check on a new polymer they've supposedly developed that's stronger and stretchier than ever before.

Which is probably bullshit, he thinks, because that lab is not known for making incredible discoveries, but, eh, it's worth checking out at least.

Every once in a blue moon they don't totally suck at what they do, which is why he keeps them around.

His brain focuses on the here and now again when Steve hesitates an arm's length away.

Oh no, they're getting out of here. Now.

Tony reaches forward and snags the band of Steve's sweats, yanking it out and letting it snap back into place. He gets a dirty look for it, which he ignores, and says, "Come on, Steve, he's okay, you heard him. And if he somehow manages to keel over, despite JARVIS' monitoring, and your creepy asleep-but-watching-you shtick, I'll ground him for eternity and...make him join the football team or something, okay?"

"Oh my god," Peter moans and catches Steve's eye. That makes Steve smile, which is something anyway. "Go, before Dad's whining makes this headache worse, please."

Steve's hand stops dead en route to Tony's hip and he turns back, mouth opening, but Tony grabs hold of his arm and snaps, "Oh, for God's sake, bed, now, or...or else! I don't know what else right now because I am _clinging_ to coherency, but else! Lots of else!"

"But Tony—"

"ELSE."

This time it's Steve with the long-suffering in the form of a sigh, but he settles and says, "Peter, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. Even if you think we're asleep—Tony, get your hands off of my ass, I'm _coming."_

"Probably not tonight," Tony snarks in return and shoves him out the door. He waits until Steve is walking toward the bed, shooting dark looks at him over his shoulder before he ducks his head back in the bathroom. Peter's chuckling and moaning in equal measures and it makes Tony feel soft and warm in the middle. "Love you, Pete," he says. "Feel better, all right?"

Peter wiggles his hand free of the comforter to give the most pathetic thumbs-up Tony's ever seen. "You got it, Pops."

Tony narrows his eyes. "Don't call me that."

Peter just laughs him out of the bathroom. Tony feels a sense of vindication when it breaks off mid-way for another round of puking, which is probably both immature and grossly unfatherly, but a little flu-bug never hurt anybody.

"God, I'm tired," he says, and flops down face first on the bed.

Steve turns the light out, even though JARVIS could do it just as easily, and then turns and runs his fingers through Tony's hair, planting a lingering kiss on the back of his neck. It makes Tony tingle from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. "You've been pushing it lately."

"I slept, like, five whole hours last night!" Tony whines. Steve lets out a huff of laughter that billows heat up into his scalp and down his spine, makes him shiver.

"And how many the night before that? Three?"

"Two," Tony grumbles and hooks his foot around Steve's ankle, dragging himself closer. The combined power of Steve's heat and scent works like a drug and he feels drowsier than ever, his whole body growing loose and heavy as he drapes his arm over Steve's waist.

"You know you can't rack up sleep debt the way you used to," Steve says and Tony barely registers the words, spoken as they are against his temple.

He grunts. "Had a gold freakin' apple jus' like everybody else. Maybe the ones we got were faulty."

Steve chuckles. "Please don't ever tell Thor that when I'm around."

That doesn't require a response, so Tony doesn't bother, letting the feeling of Steve's chest rising and falling against his cheek slowly pull him closer and closer to the brink of sleep. The gold apples had been sort of a wedding present from Thor in the sense that it had enabled them to _have_ a wedding, because extending Tony's life (and the other Avengers') had given Steve the chance to let himself want something he'd been too afraid to consider. So if it weren't for Thor, they may have never gotten here. Tony he shifts his arm, snuggling closer to Steve by tugging at his hip and Steve sucks in a breath.

Tony blinks and lifts his head, pulling his hand away. "Shit, sorry, Steve," he slurs.

"I'm fine, Tony, go to sleep," Steve murmurs in return and starts drawing lazy circles on Tony's back with his knuckles.

Tony's head sinks back down of it's own volition and he manages to mumble, "Love you."

Then he's down for the count.

~

 

For a long time, Steve doesn't sleep. He keeps one hand busy tracing patterns over the muscles of Tony's back, watching the lights of the city shift over the ceiling while he listens to Peter shuffle around between bouts of throwing up.

When he was younger, Peter used to take up residence in his and Tony's laps when he felt under the weather. Steve smiles remembering the first time Peter caught the flu when he was five. " _You just let me know if you need to throw up, all right, buddy?"_ Tony had said. Peter had agreed and then immediately lost his lunch right down Tony's front without saying a word.

Tony had been in one of his favorite t-shirts at the time and snapped, " _God_ damn _it, Peter!"_

Steve's sharp, " _Tony!"_ was utterly unnecessary because the second Peter's tiny face screwed up, tears bubbling from beneath his eyelids, it was obvious Tony had caught his mistake, his expression turning stricken.

" _Shit, shit, sorry, Peter, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, buddy, I didn't mean to yell._ " Peter was wholly unmoved by the apologies, reaching for Steve, each wail rising in volume. " _No, wait_ —" Tony protested, pleading, when Steve hooked his hands under Peter's arms and lifted him out of Tony's lap. " _Steve—"_

_"It's okay, shh. Daddy's not mad,"_ Steve assured Peter and started stripping him out of his ruined shirt. " _Get out of those clothes,"_ he told Tony, brushing the tears from Peter's cheeks with his thumbs. Tony complied without a word. Steve rubbed Peter's back, laying kisses in his hair while Tony pushed out of his jeans. " _Just leave them there,_ " Steve told Tony when he bent to gather up the clothes and Tony swallowed and straightened back up, rubbing at his nose and failing to stifle a sniffle.

Steve rose, hefting Peter onto his hip, little over-heated arms looped around his neck and his face turned into Steve's neck. Tony shriveled up when Steve stepped toward him.

Ignoring that, despite the pang it caused him, Steve murmured into Peter's temple, " _Can you look at Daddy?"_

Very reluctantly, Peter peeked up at him, his chest still hitching a little with every breath, face flushed with crying and fever.

" _Not me, pal; Tony. He wants to say something to you, okay?"_

It took a moment, but Peter finally looked at Tony, his tiny fingers gripping Steve's shirt tighter.

" _Tony,"_ Steve said, catching his eye.

Tony glanced at him, dropping his eyes when his chin trembled. He took a shaky, hitching breath, the sheen in his eyes growing even more pronounced when he met Peter's gaze. " _I'm sorry, Peter,"_ he croaked. He blinked and one tear slid free, streaking down his cheek to disappear in his goatee as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. " _Daddy's so sorry,"_ he whispered. " _He shouldn't have yelled."_

Peter sniffed, his head turning toward Tony as his grip on Steve's shirt loosened, his eyes focused on the wetness Tony wiped jerkily from his cheek. He pressed one fist to his mouth and then said softly, " _It's okay, Daddy. Don't cry."_

Tony choked out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and Peter reached out for him. When Steve handed him over, Tony pulled Peter tight to his chest, letting out a whaling breath. " _I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

" _It's okay, Daddy,"_ Peter mumbled, wrapping his arms tight around Tony's neck. " _Sorry I threw up on you."_

_"Don't be,"_ Tony said immediately. " _It's not your fault. You didn't do it on purpose. Daddy overreacted."_

_"I love you, Daddy,"_ Peter whispered and the noise Tony had made had nearly broken Steve's heart.

"I love you, Peter. I love you so, so much."

After that Steve had shepherded them to the bathroom and into the shower to clean up. Tony's always tender with Peter, but following that particular incident he'd been even more indulgent, letting Peter curl up in his lap for nearly three days straight, despite repeats of the throwing up incident, despite his aching back, and despite the unbearable heat of Peter's skin. When Peter had finally fallen asleep that first night, Steve had kissed Tony until some of the misery melted from his expression. " _You did what you needed to,"_ he'd said.

" _I fucked up."_

"Not for the first time and not for the last."

"You're gonna stick around? Call me on it?"

_"I plan to,"_ Steve said and smiled.

And so far he thinks he's kept that promise. Tony's repaid the favor more than a few times when Steve pushes too hard and expects too much of Peter. It's been a constant struggle to find a balance, but they keep trying.

Steve realizes Peter's been quiet for a while and his eyes move toward the bathroom. The light's still on. "JARVIS?" he whispers and Tony snuffles, nuzzles into his shoulder. His mouth hangs open and Steve knows there will be a wet spot before long.

"He's fallen asleep, Sir," JARVIS replies softly. "You would do well to follow his example."

Steve huffs. "I'm trying."  
  
"Try harder, Sir," JARVIS advises.

The room darkens gradually as the shades lower, whirring quietly, and Steve smiles because JARVIS can mother with the best of them. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and relishes the quiet that's settled over the apartment, drifting with the images of his latest drawings.

~

Steve wakes suddenly and fully, heart beating hard against the wall of his chest. To the left he can hear a soft rustling, the sound of someone trying to step silently. Tony's head is pillowed on Steve's stomach and he's curled up on his side facing the headboard, the blue light of the reactor effectively blinding Steve.

Moving with great care, he gets his hand around Tony's bicep, ready to fling him clear of danger if that's possible. But the footsteps are moving away, out toward—

And at last Steve realizes: _Peter._

He breathes, tension draining away, and as he releases Tony's arm, he lifts his head to check he hasn't woken him. He hasn't.

Steve lets his head fall back, lifting one hand to rest against his forehead as he breathes through the ebbing adrenaline rush. He winces as the stitches start to throb. "JARVIS," he says and his voice is rough with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Five thirty-nine, sir."

Steve sighs and closes his eyes again. It's barely been four hours. "Peter?"

"Watching TV, sir."

_He must be feeling better,_ Steve thinks, and lets sleep claim him again.

~

 

Peter's slumped on the couch, swaddled in his dads' comforter watching an infomercial for knives through a haze of exhaustion when he hears the door open behind him. He pushes upright, despite the effort that costs him and tips his head back to look over the couch back. It's Tony.

"Hi, dad."

Tony looks up from the tie he's securing around his neck and smiles, says, "Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?"

Peter shrugs because he's not throwing up, but he's worn out just from sitting up to look over the back of the couch, so. It's all relative. "Okay," he says. "Where are you going?"

Tony sighs and heads into the kitchen, where he digs a nutritional shake out of the fridge before coming out into the living room to lean on the couch back. "Got a meeting with Harvey. Been trying to get together for months, but our schedules are always conflicting." He takes a sip of the shake and then reaches over to feel Peter's face. His hands are cold and they feel good on Peter's overheated skin.

"D'you even know what you're looking for when you do that?" Peter mumbles.

Tony gives him a look of mock surprise. "Wait, you mean I'm supposed to have an ulterior motive? I thought it was just an excuse to touch your pretty face."

Peter snorts and lets his eyes drift back toward the TV.

"Well, now," Tony says, "They're still selling knives that cut through drywall?"

"And wood, according to this infomercial, but I'm pretty sure they're using balsa."

Tony lets out a bark of laughter and then leans forward, catching Peter's head with his hand and planting a kiss on the crown. "Anything you need before I go, Bambi?"

Peter shakes his head. "Nah, I'm all right, Dad. Thanks."

"No problem. See you in a couple hours." He kisses Peter again and then he's gone.

Realizing that if his dad's heading to work, Doctor S is probably up, too, Peter paws around in the blankets until he finds his phone.

_Hey, Doc,_ he texts, _I'm showing definite signs of symptoms. Severe fatigue set in sometime Sunday morning and at 0100 this morning I started vomiting. Sounds like Phase 1 to me._

He takes a look at the Band-Aids covering the bites on his left hand and ignores the urge to scratch it. The redness and swelling has started to creep out from underneath. None of the research mentioned a rash around the bite, but then, all the animals the Doc tested had fur.

I think I'm having a reaction around the bites, too. I've got a rash. Did you ever see that on the test animals?

~

 

Clint crawled into Natasha's bed at two-thirty, waking her instantly.

"Problem?" she'd murmured, reserving eye-opening for confirmed trouble.

"Probably not. Pete's sick."

"Very?"

She felt the mattress shift as he shrugged. "Nah. Flu's my guess."

"Mm," she had murmured, drawing her pillow close again. "Get out."

Clint had huffed a laugh and slipped out the way he'd come.

The next afternoon between training and a meeting with Coulson, Natasha seeks out a snack and information.

She finds both within moments of one another. A bagel is obtained in the kitchen and when she steps onto the elevator with it a few moments later to ride to the penthouse, Gwen Stacy is standing at the back, clutching an enormous book to her chest.

Natasha reflexively smothers a smile when her eyes round as Natasha steps into the car. "Good morning, Miss Stacy," Natasha says, inclining her head.

"Um," Gwen says, and then flushes prettily in a way that forces Natasha to turn her head away in order to hide her smile because it reminds her too much of Steve. "H-hi, Ms. Romanova. It's— it's nice to see you again."

Natasha is charmed because Gwen means it, despite how obviously intimidated she is. Her reward is a genuine smile. "Going to see Peter?" she asks.

Gwen nods, looking mystified. "Yes. We've got this _massive_ World History exam on Thursday, so unless he's got the plague, we've got a ton of studying to do. We're both miserable history students," she confides, leaning toward Natasha, which pleases her far more than it should.

 

~

Harvey raked him over the coals for one pointless little lawsuit and the guys in Lab Four were more idiotic than usual,and to top it all off, the cuts on his foot are throbbing furiously after the abuse of spending the day running around, so Tony's utterly fed up with the day, despite it only being three-thirty.

As a result, by the time he's reached the penthouse, Tony's shucked his jacket, tie, and vest, undone his belt, tugged his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it. That way, by the time he makes it to the bedroom it'll take twenty seconds, tops, to get into a t-shirt and jeans. He'll check on Peter and then go down to the lab and bang on something until he feels better.

He's not expecting Captain Stacy's daughter to walk into his living room five seconds after he does, craning her neck around Peter's wadded up comforter. He stops, staring, and she stops, eyes widening like she's been caught stealing the crown jewels. "Stacy," he says, "what are you doing here?"

"Um," she starts and her eyes dart to an already massive pile of blankets on the sofa, which lets out a groan.

"Dad, don't, _please."_

Tony waves the armful of clothing he's holding and says, raising his voice, "What is she doing here, Peter?" On the other side of the couch, the Stacy kid's face starts to turn a vivid pink and she looks up at the ceiling. Tony realizes a second later that his unzipped slacks are starting to slide down his hips and grits his teeth, yanking them back up with one hand. He absolutely does _not_ blush, because that would imply he has a sense of _shame,_ which Tony hasn't had since he was...well, possibly since ever, but at least since he was fifteen, when he got caught in a disturbingly similar situation, i.e. pants falling down in front of a seventeen-year-old girl.

"Um, hi, Mister Stark, I'm sorry, I thought Peter told you I was coming over. We're supposed to watch Lord of the Flies and we just thought we'd watch it together and there's this history exam we have to study for? I didn't mean to intrude and accidentally see your underwear—"

" _What?_ " Peter says and the pile on the couch trembles, a tuft of hair popping up from somewhere in the middle. "Please tell me you're joking. _Dad!"_

"Well, maybe if I'd known we were going to have _guests!"_ Tony yells in return. "I should be able to walk around my own goddamn Tower in my underwear! Where the hell is your father anyway, shouldn't he be chaperoning you two?"

Barely a corner of Peter's face is showing, but it's enough for Tony to see his eyeroll. "Dad, you're the only one who thinks we need a chaperone."

"Oh, no," Gwen says, delivering the comforter and tucking it around the mass surrounding Peter already, "my dad does too."

"Well, that's one thing we agree on," Tony mutters and stalks past them to find his husband and get into a pair of pants he doesn't have to hold up because he really is not equipped to deal with this situation as is. "Keep your hands to yourselves," he orders.

"But I'm so attractive right now!" Peter yells after him. "This could be my only chance!"

Steve's not in the bedroom, which is probably for the best, Tony feels a lot less cranky after he's gotten rid of the suit and put on some clothes that won't involve flashing his goods at the teenage girl who's got her talons around his kid's heart. He pauses in the doorway and watches as the Stacy kid slides a movie chip into the player, glancing back over her shoulder to smile and say something that makes Peter's blanket pile quiver with laughter.

Tony grimaces and runs his thumb over the casing of the arc reactor—he'd opted for one of the shirts tailored to show it. God, he gets why Peter is into her, he does, she's gorgeous and smart and the last ten minutes alone have shown that she cares about him, but every time he sees her, Tony thinks about Pepper and the break-up and how even amicable and mutually agreed upon as it had been, it had _fucked him up_. They've held onto their friendship out of sheer stubbornness on both their parts and Tony would rather dig the arc reactor out with rusty spoons before giving that up, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still ache like nothing he's ever felt before and he doesn't want that for Peter. It's the _last_ thing he wants for Peter.

A girl as good as all that is dangerous.

And yeah, all right, he's being a little ridiculous, Peter's not him and Gwen's not Pepper and Peter's infinitely more well-adjusted than he's ever been, but...

God, he just doesn't want to see him hurt.

"Where's Steve?" Tony asks, moving over to the couch to press his hand to Peter's forehead. "He'd better be here somewhere, you know the rules."

Peter glares at him and squirms away from his hand. "He's in the studio, jeez, Dad."

Tony glances at Gwen and she goes still, staring straight ahead at the TV like maybe if she doesn't move he can't see her. Tony rolls his eyes and says, "Watch your movie. Stacy, keep your mouth to yourself, your dad will have me brutally murdered if you catch whatever Pete's got."

"Oh my god," he hears her mutter, mortified, as he slips through the door into Steve's studio.

There's a half wall erected in the middle of the space, bare braces and struts facing them and Tony moves around it to have something to focus his gaze on as he drags his hands through his hair. He hasn't been in here in awhile and the sketch hung on the reverse is unfamiliar.

It's big enough to take up the majority of a real wall and it's still rough, in the early stages of planning and in a few places he can see the faint lines of figures Steve determined were ill-placed. However, he recognizes shorthand details indicating one of the solidly-placed figures is Thor, and another one in the corner, Natasha, across from her, Iron Man and the massive outline of Hulk. There's a smaller figure that seems to have moved all around the canvas without finding a home.

"What's this?" he demands and anyone else might be upset by his tone. Steve just moves up next to him, gaze assessing as he looks it over for probably the millionth time.

"Peter's birthday is coming up and I wanted to give him something special." He rolls a small shrug off his shoulders and murmurs, "He wants to be part of the Avengers so much."

Tony softens a little because that's just the thoughtful kind of thing Steve does best. Nothing like the outrageous shit he does, hoping something will hit the mark. "He's gonna love it."

Steve nods and after another moment of assessment, he looks over. "You need to lay off Gwen."

A scowl immediately sweeps over Tony's face. "She's turning him against us, Steve!"

Steve gives him a look that's equal parts sympathy and exasperation. "She's not turning him against us, Tony. If anyone's turning anybody, it's you."

Tony's jaw clenches. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve sighs and steps forward, drawing Tony into his arms. "Think back, Tony. What did _you_ do when your parents didn't approve of something?" Tony loathes that he makes a good point. Steve kisses his forehead and says, "Look, I know you're worried, but Peter is a smart kid. And Gwen is a nice girl. I really think you're blowing this out of proportion. But if you're _that_ concerned, we can sit them both down and talk to them about safe sex and—"

Tony shudders. "Oh _god_ , no. Talk about trauma. I need a drink, Christ."

Steve, the asshole, chuckles the whole way to the bar.

~

 

"Wow," Gwen says in a low voice when the door shuts behind his dads, "He _really_ does not like me."

Beside her, Peter sighs, slumped toward her in his burrito of blankets, and says, "He doesn't not like you. Dad's just..." He looks up at her from near her shoulder, gray-skinned and exhausted. "He has trust issues." Then he cuts his eyes toward her and says, just a _little_ resentful, "I'm surprised _Steve_ didn't tell you all about it, since you guys are best friends now."

A sharp, short laugh bursts out of Gwen and she twists on the couch to face him, saying gleefully, "Oh my god, are you _jealous?_ "

"Don't blaspheme," Peter mutters, sullen. "Isn't it bad enough one of them doesn't like you?"

"I thought you said he didn't not like me." She refuses to be diverted and pushes Peter's shoulder, says, delighted, "You're totally jealous. Peter, he's like, three times my age. And that's not even counting the seventy years he spent frozen. I mean, I have eyes, he's flawless, but—"

"Please, stop, _I'm begging you_. How did this conversation even happen?" Peter moans and brings the blanket up to cover his head.

Gwen leans toward Peter and pries the blanket back, taking pity on him, and puts a finger on his nose. "It's okay. I'm pretty sure your dad thinks I'm going to ravish his baby boy and then break his heart and that's too sweet to be upset about."

Peter grimaces. "I'm fif _teen_ , I'm more grown up than he is half the time. I'd like the chance to develop my own trust issues."

They're quiet for a few minutes, watching the previews. He's blinking a little sleepily at the people running around on screen when Gwen says quietly, "So is he worried for nothing or is something going on here, Peter?"

It takes a minute for him to parse out what she's saying, then he feels a wave of heat rush into his cheeks. "Um. I mean—is that—do you—?"

Gwen huffs and rolls her eyes. "I held your blanket while you threw up, Peter. If I had some neon I'd make you a sign."

"Oh. Um. Yeah. I—there's something—"

Behind them the studio door swings open.

Tony shoots a dark look in their direction, his eyes narrowing when he sees Peter's likely bright red face, and starts muttering to himself. Steve follows in his wake.

"Are you ready for this?" Gwen asks, waving to the screen where the movies starting.

"God, no," Peter says and flops down again, the crown of his head pressing into her arm. "I mean, 'gosh, no'," he revises a second later, throwing a half-hearted glance toward the kitchen. Gwen smothers a giggle behind her hand and glances back, too. They seem to be occupied now, engrossed in a conversation. Tony's sitting on one of the counters, gesticulating enthusiastically and Steve's leaning against the counter, listening intently to whatever he's saying, too low for them to make out more than the low hum of his tone. They're obviously best friends, buddies, and it's totally unlike the soft, romantic thing her parents have got going on, not that there's anything wrong with soft and romantic. Gwen just wants something different. Something more like what Peter's dads share, and she's hoping maybe she can have it with Peter.

"I don't think he heard you," she whispers.

"I heard," Steve replies, glancing their way with a slow, warm smile, and Peter gives her a _see what did I tell you_ look.

"Super hearing," he says by way of explanation.

"So don't even think about creeping off to make-out. We'll know," Peter's other dad says and Peter covers his face with his hands, groaning.

"Like you don't have JARVIS watching our every move, geez, dad. Even if we _were_ going to make-out, I'm sick. That's gross."

"He's right," Gwen says, nodding. "I saw what he ate for breakfast and not _before_ he ate it. Kind of a mood-killer," she tells him in a stage-whisper. Because Gwen may be afraid of him, but that just tends to make her extra cheeky. She talks when she's feeling panicky, okay?

The comment makes the other dad's mouth twitch, violently, in a direction that suggests he's battling a smile, but Gwen's not about to let that get her hopes up.

She holds out a Gatorade bottle for Peter to have something to do with her hands. "Speaking of puking." She shakes it in his face.

"Ugh," Peter says, but he snakes a hand out to take the bottle.

"Whoa," Gwen says, her eyes catching on his wrist and she grabs onto it. "You're all splotchy, Peter, is that normal?"

Peter shrugs because the blotches of red climbing from the bites on his hand to his elbow itch a little, but that's all. Who knows what's normal. "I dunno," he lies. "It's probably just a fever rash." He's so ready to be superpowered already.

Gwen hmms at him dubiously, but she releases his arm and lets him drink. "You should tell your dads."

"Sure," Peter tells her, "when the movie's over."

~ Chapter Eight ~

 

"Un-be-fucking- _liev-_ able," Tony pants as the assembly arms disengage the Iron Man helmet. Steve's inclined to agree with that assessment. He manages a small smile for the disgusted curl of Tony's lip as the assembly removes the shoulder and chest plates, revealing the thin layer of mucous it's covered in. "Are we sure this shit isn't poisonous?"

Bruce shrugs, smiling in spite of how low his eyelids are drooping. "Reasonably sure." He can afford to be amused since he had clean clothes on site and the Hulk took the initiative to take a bath in the lake before changing back. He's the only one who doesn't look and smell like he's, well, been fighting giant frogs for the better part of the day. The only person luckier right now is Thor who is in Asgard for necessary royal duties.

Steve very pointedly does not think about how he is envious of that at this specific moment in time, especially since he's actually sure Thor would much prefer to have switched him places, while Steve probably wouldn't be any happier there, to be honest.

The five of them troop inside the penthouse from the landing platform.

"I fucking _hate_ Loki," Clint snarls, dragging his hands through his hair and pulling a hand covered in translucent congealing goo away. It looks like snot and he gives his dangling fingers a dirty look, then surreptitiously eyes the people closest to him. Steve can see him consider and reject Bruce and look towards Natasha speculatively. "Goddamn giant goddamn _frogs,_ what the _fuck._ "

"It could have been worse," Natasha says, and turns when she somehow senses his falsely casual slide her direction. She ducks fluidly out of the way of his hand, shooting him a quelling look before moving out of his reach again.

"Ha!" Clint says in reply. He glances over at Tony, arm curling back behind his leg to hide it, but Steve catches his gaze and shakes his head. He sneers, a flash of insubordination, but Steve just holds steady and Clint gives in with a roll of his eyes, wiping his hand on his own leg. "Remind me to tell Thor that Loki owes us dry cleaning."

"Good luck with that," Tony calls. "Last time I demanded he pay for the damages he caused he sent me leprechaun gold. Only worse because it didn't just vanish, it took everything it was touching with it."

Clint grunts in remembrance and bends over to tug his boot off. He starts to tip it over to empty it of the lake water it's no doubt full of, but Tony's, "Hey!" and Steve's "Clint!" stop him. He actually looks genuinely confused for a moment before he realizes what he was doing.

"Oh. Sorry." He sets it on the ground upright, then removes the mate and sets it down as well. His socks squelch as he peels them off, then they're stuffed in the boots as well.

While the rest of them shake their heads, Bruce chuckles and yawns. "How long were we out anyway? Eight hours?"

"Almost ten," Steve says and, yeah, he's feeling every one. He undoes the zip and shrugs out of the upper body armor, wincing as the sprain in his shoulder reminds him of its existence. He swings it around a few times to try and loosen it up, as well as testing his range of motion. Good enough, though a few days to rest wouldn't go amiss. It's been a week since Cleveland and his hip is pretty much healed, his forehead tight and itchy beneath the stitches. Thankfully none of them popped, though a few have stretched a bit. He'll have to have them checked again to make sure they're okay.

Tony finally steps free of the platform, fully unsuited and crosses over to the bar's fridge, digging out bottled drinks for all and, "Heads up!" tossing one to Clint and Natasha each. The last three he brings in his hands, lobbing one gently to Bruce when he's closer. It lands on the couch next to Bruce and goes unnoticed as the intended recipient is half asleep—if not more.

He tucks one under his arm as he comes to a stop next to Steve, twisting the cap off of the last with a snap and offering it—and a kiss. Steve accepts both, though he is not at all surprised when Tony keeps it closed-mouth and breaks it off almost immediately. Nose wrinkling, he declares, "Ugh. You stink."

Steve gives him a small smirk and says, "Gee, thanks. You smell like roses yourself," before tipping the bottle up. He has to force himself not to gulp it all down, deliciously cool and fresh and washing away the various and terrible tastes in his mouth.

He had, at one point, been kicked into the lake by one gigantic webbed foot and the water, while smelling better than the frog itself, hadn't tasted very good as he choked it back up and spit it out.

He catches a flash of Tony's wide grin at the remark, but when he looks again after half the bottle is gone, Tony's expression has gone somewhat slack, his eyes locked on Steve with an avid, hungry expression that has somehow not faded after fifteen years. It earns him an arched eyebrow and Tony jerks and then shakes himself more fully and, directing a mild glare Steve's way, turns toward the couch Bruce is on, dropping down next to the dozing scientist and waking him up again.

"Huh? Wha?" he says and twitches like he means to sit up abruptly. He doesn't quite make it and subsides almost immediately.

Tony snickers, but he opens the bottle of iced tea he'd almost sat on and offers it to Bruce.

"Oh. Thanks." Bruce sips it, then his eyes open wider and he all but chugs it down after that.

"That trollop Gwen Stacy was in our house for the better part of _three hours_ yesterday," Tony complains.

"You are an unbelievable whiner, Stark," Clint says. "You should be thanking God on bended knee every night that he's into her."

"Thank you, Clint," Steve says, aiming a pointed look in Tony's direction.

"Oh, sure, because circus boy is really a good judge of the average teenage girl's motives!"

"Excuuuse me," Clint snarks back, "I forgot how normal and well-adjusted you were as a teenager!"

Tony sinks into the couch, opening his own bottle and downing half of it in one go. He frowns then and says, "JARVIS, where is Peter anyway?"

"I thought he wasn't feeling well," Clint says. Natasha frowns at the reminder.

"Yeah," Tony says, "but it's just a little summer cold or something and besides, that has never stopped him from meeting us before. He'd crawl his way up here on three limbs if he broke his leg."

Clint has to concede that with a nod as he drinks more of his own water.

Silence follows and Tony's not the only one frowning after a few moments.

"JARVIS?" Tony says, sitting up and forward, feet planting firmly on the floor and one hand bracing on the couch to push up.

Steve is feeling the worry start to build in his stomach at the continued silence and everyone is starting to tense up again, Clint's and Natasha's expressions clearing of emotion as they visibly shift back into combat mode, and Bruce blinking furiously and pushing himself out of the comfortable slump he'd sunk into.

Tony is on his feet and striding across the floor toward the nearest tablet, left on the bar's counter in the rush out the door this morning. He picks it up and taps quickly, fingers dancing over the screen, then looks up expectantly.

JARVIS says, "Thank you, sir," his modulated voice unusually tight and urgent.

"What happened?" Tony barks, but his fingers are already moving over the screen again.

"Peter overrode my ability to communicate with you about his condition during your outing."

Steve's stomach starts dropping like a stone. "What?" he asks as Clint says, "Wait, he can do that?"

Bruce looks unexpectedly guilty and Natasha casts a narrowed-eyed look his way, but now is not the time to worry about who taught him to do it—God knows he would have learned on his own eventually anyway.

Tony glances up and their eyes meet before breaking away again. "Why did he do that?" Steve says instead, then brushes it away with an impatient wave of his hand. "Never mind. Just... What _is_ his condition, JARVIS?"

"I have been trying to find a way around it for hours," JARVIS says in explanation, then smoothly transitions to, "His condition has deteriorated considerably, I'm afraid," in response to Steve's question.

"Where is he?" Tony says, the tablet hitting the counter again with a sharp snapping sound. It isn't broken, they're made to survive combat—or, more importantly, Avengers'—needs, but it punctuates his demand quite well.

"His bedroom, sir."

"How bad?" Steve asks, voice clipped as a current of fear cuts through the veil of weariness settling over him. He outpaces Tony in seconds.

"He has developed a rash covering a considerable amount of his visible skin. The irritation and his scratching of it has caused him to break the skin in several places. I tried to offer recommendations for relief, but he told me not to concern myself, to focus on assisting you, Sir," JARVIS says apologetically. "I'm afraid I brought my enforced silence on myself," he adds and Steve looks at one of the cameras in the ceiling.

"You did not," Tony snorts, but Steve can hear the underlying tension in the tone.

"I convinced him to retreat to his room, hoping he would rest, but he was very insistent upon watching the news coverage of the battle and would not leave even to vomit, instead dragging a trashcan with him. I told him that if he would not take steps to preserve his health, I would involve you. _That_ was when he overrode my protocols."

"But he didn't silence you completely," Steve says, looking to Tony for confirmation and getting it in the shake of Tony's head.

"No, but he did restrict the security protocols that allow me to report anything that happens in this tower."

"He's fucking grounded," Tony mutters at that and Steve gives him a severe look.

"Tony—"

"No," Tony says, whirling to jab a finger at Steve's chest. "He didn't pick and choose what JARVIS could and could not report, he just cut it all off. There could have been a fire or goddamn Doom breaking in here while we were off fighting those fucking frogs and JARVIS wouldn't have been able to say a goddamn thing. I don't care how worried he is about us, that is _not_ okay."

Steve can see how much that upsets Tony, hell, he feels the same way now that he understands, but if Peter is sick, especially if he's worse than he was before, yelling at him isn't going to help anything.

The five of them grow conspicuously silent as they arrive at Peter's door.

Tony had looked like he was just going to walk right through, like he's expecting Peter to be doing something illegal inside and doesn't want to give him time to hide it, but he stops suddenly when he reaches it and takes a breath, eyes closed. He's trying to push down the anger, to be reasonable if not patient, and Steve has a fleeting feeling of pride at how far he's come and sadness that he doesn't see it that way most of the time.

Then he knocks, three quick sharp cracks of his knuckle on the wood. He doesn't wait for an answer, though, just pushes in. He stops earlier than Steve expected him to, creating something of a bottleneck that keeps everyone else back in the hallway, Clint craning a little to see past Bruce and Natasha, even though he's taller than her.

It's dark and stuffy inside and Steve's nose wrinkles automatically when confronted with the smell of stale vomit. "Peter?" he says, moving ahead of Tony.

Peter is propped up on half a dozen pillows when they step through the door and he blinks, sheepishness creeping over his expression. He looks washed out, skin the color of milk, except the dark rings around his eyes where it looks almost bruised. There's a red splotchy rash creeping up his cheek that's overtaken his neck and even from here Steve can see spots where Peter's scratched it bloody. His eyes dart over to Bruce who's moving toward the bed, cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt while he frowns. "Party in my room?" Peter says and Tony's expression blackens.

"You're fucking grounded."

Peter seems to sag into his blankets and he nods, mumbles, "That's fair."

Tony stiffens, eyes jumping to meet Steve's and his shock is plain. He'd expected an argument, a token protest at the very least. Steve crosses his arms and presses his fingers down around his mouth. _Don't jump to conclusions_ , he orders himself.

After a moment, Tony rallies and adds, "Two weeks. No visitation."

"Mhm," Peter says, and his eyes slide closed. "C'n I get a glass of water, please?"

Steve is peripherally aware of Natasha slipping out the door to grant his request, but the wide-eyed look he's getting from Tony seems to echo the tight anxiety clustering in his chest pretty well.

"Do you even understand why I'm pissed?" Tony demands.

Peter's eyes flutter open again. "I guess so."

"You _guess_ so? You jeopardized the lives of everyone in the goddamn Tower, Peter! You crippled JARVIS!"

Peter heaves a sigh. "Okay, I get it. I didn't want him to distract you when I was perfectly fine—"

"You are not 'perfectly fine'!" Tony snarls. "That's not up to you. You're fifteen-goddamn-years-old! Deciding what is and isn't perfectly fine is up to your father and I, and if you _ever_ compromise JARVIS again you can bet your ass I will revoke your lab privileges, don't think I won't."

"Tony," Steve cuts in, and it's not that he doesn't approve of Tony acting the disciplinarian, but—

He gets a scathing look for his trouble, but Tony presses his hands down over his eyes and grits, "We'll discuss this further later." Then he takes a slow, deep breath and drops his hands before he moves to the bed. He sinks down on the mattress next to Peter and says in a very carefully measured voice, "When did this start?"

Peter grimaces. "Um...I may or may not have first noticed it on Sunday?"

There's a beat of silence after his admission.

Clint is the first to break it. "Christ. Do _any_ of you three have a sense of self-preservation?"

"Yeah, because your record of acting in self-preservation is so pristine," Tony snaps back.

"Guys," Steve warns. Then he focuses his gaze on Peter, who shrinks into the blankets even further. "Why didn't you mention this sooner, Peter?"

"I don't know," Peter whines. "You guys were busy and I forgot! I didn't even notice it unless it was itchy!"

Tony snorts and Steve moves to join him on the bed, but he's stopped by Clint's hand around his wrist. "Ah, ah, ah."

Steve frowns and Clint pulls his hand away, directing a pointed look to the strings of slime that draw out between his hand and Steve's arm before breaking at last. "You're slimy," Clint adds, unnecessarily. When this earns him stares from Bruce, Tony, and Natasha he says, "What? If I can't pour out my boots, he shouldn't be allowed to sit on the bed! Fairness: it's a thing. Besides, do you really want to get this stuff in his bed when he's like this?"

"You have a point," Steve says, sighing.

He's resigned himself to merely standing close by when Peter's face twists and he says, "Why do you smell like—"

He makes an awful noise and Tony's eyes go wide. "TRASH CAN!" he barks, but unfortunately Natasha's reflexes are ever-so-slightly diminished after ten straight hours of being run ragged by gigantic frogs and it arrives just a second too late. Peter throws up right in Tony's lap.

"Eugh," he says and sighs. "So much for skipping the shower."

Peter moans and his shoulders hitch as he gags again. "Dad," he croaks, "I love you, but whatever you bathed in is—" And he chokes up yet more liquid.

"Okay," Tony says, "Come on, Steve, get back, would you? That goes for you, too, Clint, Natasha. Shoo. Before I've taken a shower in vomit, all right?"

Steve does as directed, his movements translating to the others, ignoring the tiny pang of hurt at being asked to retreat when Peter looks like this and his instinct says to go and cuddle him, Peter's natural resistance to such things at his age notwithstanding.

The three of them step outside and Steve sighs, starts to pull off his gloves. A minute later Tony emerges as well and Clint chokes on a smothered burst of laughter. He's got the top blanket from Peter's bed slung between his legs and gathered up around his hips like an enormous diaper. "Shut up, Barton. Bruce says we might as well all go get cleaned up while he checks Peter out."

"There isn't much we can do for him now," Natasha says agreeably and nods.

"JARVIS, send Betty up, will you? Bruce looked about two seconds away from passing out on Peter's shoulder."

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS says and they head for the showers.

~

 

Tony has already peeled off his soiled clothes and climbed in while Steve is still in the process of removing his uniform. JARVIS interrupts this process with, "Pardon me, sir, but Miss Potts is on the line."

"Who for, J?" Tony calls, blowing out a spray of water.

"You, sir," he replies and Tony ducks out from under the stream, blinking.

"Yeah, okay, put her through."

There's a brief pause and then Pepper's voice replaces JARVIS'. "Tony, I need you here, ten minutes ago," she says, her voice drawn bow-string taut.

Tony's eyebrows go up. "We just got back from the debacle in Central Park, Pep, and a fifteen-year-old just threw up in my lap, can't it wait?"

"No, sorry," Pepper replies and she sounds faintly apologetic, but determined. "There was an explosion at the plant in Bundaberg."

"What? Shit. JARVIS, deluge." Like a bucket of water has been tipped over, a rush of water splashes over Tony's head and he shakes it to clear the water from his eyes and squeegees his hands over his hair to keep more from replacing it. Steve almost hands him the towel hanging up, but reconsiders with a grimace when he sees his hands and is reminded of the reason he's showering right now instead of sitting with his sick son. Instead he steps aside and lets Tony past to get his own towels.

Steve watches Tony whip a towel around his hips and grab a second to scrub his hair with. There is a certain amount of trepidation as Steve takes his place in the shower, knowing that an explosion at a plant is never a good thing, and wondering how much Tony will to have to be gone.

He's not ignorant of the cost this will have, in terms of human lives as much as other more material and business costs, but there is that tiny selfish part of him he keeps so carefully hidden that doesn't want his husband leaving while their son is sick, possibly seriously. He's not sure of the exact time conversion, so he can't even estimate casualties based solely on how busy the plant is this time of day.

"Goddammit, this is why I didn't want Bradford in charge down there. I don't care whose sister's cousin's brother-in-law he is, that doesn't mean diddly-squat when you're talking about handling procedures for acetone peroxide!"

"Well," Pepper's voice says grimly, "it's a mistake he won't make twice. Unfortunately, he's not the only one who's paying for that mistake."

Tony goes still, hands dropping. "How many?"

"Fourteen."

Steve sees Tony's fingers clench around the towel and then he he hurls it into the corner, snarling, " _Goddammit!"_

"How soon can you be here?" Pepper asks.

Tony's breathing hard, his shoulders hunched, and Steve steps to the edge of the shower. Before he can say anything, Tony replies, "I can be changed in five minutes. JARVIS—"

"Mister Hogan is already waiting for you in the garage, sir."

"Great," Tony says and then mutters something under his breath. "Fifteen minutes, give or take, Pep."

"I'll meet you downstairs."

Pepper disconnects and Steve seizes his chance. "You're not responsible, Tony."

Tony snorts, a nasty, cynical sound and looks up his dark eyes sharp with fury. "Oh, believe me. I know exactly who's responsible for this. It was the goddamn board's decision to instate him. But the company's got my name on it, so that doesn't matter. I gotta go."

Steve reaches out and snags him by the elbow, pulling him back to land a quick kiss. "Come home after."

Tony runs a hand through his wet hair, then absently flicks the water from it. "I don't know how late I'll be, Steve—"

"I don't care. Come home and wake me up if I'm already asleep."

Tony looks him in the eye, gauging his sincerity, which is ridiculous in Steve's opinion, after a decade and a half of wearing rings, but he just meets the question with a steady answer.

"Love you," Tony says, quickly, quietly, and steals a final kiss.

"Love you, too," Steve replies, then lets Tony go and returns to his shower. He watches through the glass until Tony's gone, then turns his face up into the water and says a prayer for fourteen families.

~ Chapter Eight ~

"That _asshole_ ," Peter says when Steve tells him why Tony doesn't return with him. "I mean, it's not like he deserved to _die_ , but—sorry," he says, presumably catching sight of the disapproving look on Steve's face. "Dad _told_ them."

"People make the wrong decision sometimes, because doing the right thing isn't the easiest thing," Steve replies.

"All they have to do is _listen._ It's too bad you can't punch stupidity in the face."

Steve huffs and leans forward to brush back Peter's hair. Fortunately, he seems to have bathed while they were out in Central Park and it's not the greasy mess he remembers leaving behind. He kisses Peter's forehead, ignoring his grimace. "Some battles are between a man and his God. You should sleep, Peter, you look exhausted."

Peter nods. "Think it's the Benedryl Aunt Betty gave me."

Steve kisses him again quickly and then rises. "Get some rest and we'll see if you feel better in the morning."

"Kay," Peter mumbles and Steve smiles, pretty sure he's asleep before the door closes behind him.

Out in the living room, Bruce has listed onto his side on the couch and he's sleeping with his mouth half-open and his glasses hanging around his chin. Betty's sitting next to him, bent over the coffee table and what are presumably Peter's samples. Clint's sitting on the kitchen counter fussing with his sling while Natasha works behind him, putting together something that already smells mouthwatering.

Suddenly, Steve is aware of the gnawing hunger licking at his sternum, the slight headache in the center of his forehead.

"I imagine you're starving," Coulson says, and Steve's startled to see him standing next to the dining room table. That he can still manage that after all this time is...well, it's alarming, is what it is, and not unimpressive. A tiny smile curves Phil's lips as he glances up from the paperwork spread out on the table. "A little bird informed me Peter was unwell and I thought perhaps a more informal debriefing might be welcome." He glances behind Steve and his expression turns quizzical. "Will Tony be joining us soon?"

Steve shakes his head. "He took off maybe twenty minutes after we got back. There was an explosion at one of the factories."

"Well, shit," Clint says.

"I suppose we'll have to do without his contributions then," Phil says. "Mrs. Banner, would you mind...?"  
  
"Certainly." Betty draws back from the samples, pushing her glasses up onto the top of her head. "Bruce?" She cups his cheek and bends to kiss his forehead, thumb stroking over his skin.

His eyes flutter open and his brow furrows.

"Hi," she says, smiling gently. "Welcome back."

His hand comes up to fix his glasses, then slides back down to cover hers. "Hey."

Her smile widens. "Hey. Phil's here for the debrief. Are you hungry? Natasha's making dinner."

He bites back a yawn and nods, easing up as she straightens out of his way. She runs her hand up and cards through his hair, then kisses his cheek once more before getting to her feet and holding out her hands. Bruce takes them, kissing each one and then using her help to leverage his way to his feet. He scans the room with still-drooping eyes and says, "What about Tony?"  
  
"Had to go," Steve explains. "Explosion in one of the factories."

The sleepy softness solidifies into a harder expression. "Bundaberg?"

Steve nods. "Fourteen killed."

"Dammit." Bruce sighs and rubs at his eyes. "Did he take it badly?"

Natasha smacks Clint on the thigh with a spatula and Steve moves to help her carry the dishes to the table, shrugging. "As much as expected."

"If they'd just have listened when Tony told them that man wasn't qualified—"

Steve shoots him a crooked smile. "If wishes were fishes..."

"What about Peter?" Bruce asks, frowning. "How's he doing?"

"Ah," Betty says with a little smile as everyone finds a place around the table. "I have good news. The rash actually seems to be originating from what I think may be an insect bite on his left hand. So the new symptom is likely _not_ in fact a new symptom, just an unlucky coincidence."

"Well thank God for that," Clint says, grabbing a serving fork and starting to dish out green beans. "At least one thing's going right."  
  
Betty smiles at Steve and nods. "With any luck, it's just an allergic reaction and the Benedryl will clear it up."

"Tony will be relieved to hear it."

"This looks immaculate," Phil says to Natasha, neatly tucking his napkin into the collar of his shirt. She smiles and acknowledges the compliment with a tilt of her head.

"Eat," she commands in Steve's direction. "I can hear your stomach consuming itself."

"She tells me to eat less," Clint grumbles and then hisses. They save the debriefing until after everyone has finished their first helpings, though Steve moves on through two, three, and four as they go over the events of the day in painstaking detail.

Phil makes the process as efficient as it is possible to make it, but by the time they're nearly through, Bruce isn't the only one struggling to stay awake. "All right," Phil says at last, paging through the paperwork. "I think that's the last of it. Thank you all."

"Mmph," Clint grunts and lets his head drop down on the table. "Tash, I need drugs. Get me drugs."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You are an unbelievable child." She goes to collect his pills from the counter though.

"Come on, sweetheart," Betty says, leaning over to kiss Bruce's cheek. "Let's get you to bed."

"Mm," Bruce murmurs in reply, but he doesn't move until she takes his hand. Then he obediently follows the tug of her hand. He waves half-heartedly as she leads him to the elevator, mumbling an incomprehensible good-bye.

Coulson leaves in their wake, followed by a cranky, complaining archer. Natasha lingers, helping Steve carry the dishes to the sink.

"You've had a rough week," she says and Steve laughs.

"Seems pretty routine to me."

She gives him a steady, serious look and his smile fades. One hand comes up, thumb just barely brushing his cheek. "That's not what these sutures tell me. Sleep tonight, Stiepanchka."

Steve nods. "I will."

~

 

_hey doc,_ Peter texts, _little sicker today. still throwing up. the rash is still spreading. my family found it and freaked out._

He's starting to drift off again when the phone buzzes in his hand.

Doc 17:05PM

Did you tell them?

Peter snorts. _no, are you kidding, they'd kill me. i'm grounded already for not saying anything about the rash._

Doc 17:05PM

Do you think they won't when you have improved?

Peter thinks about that for a second.

no. but i'm gonna put it off as long as possible

Someone knocks on the door and Peter jerks, nearly throwing his phone onto the floor. He looks up and Aunt Natasha is smirking at him around the door. "Who you texting?"

"Um, n-nobody," Peter stutters, like an idiot. "Just a friend," he amends, and turns the screen off, slipping it under the covers.

"Uh huh," she says. She's got that look in her eye and Peter's learned enough from her and Uncle Clint to know that he's going to have to give up some kind of secret or she'll never let it go.

She sits on the edge of the bed and brushes the hair back out of his face. "What did you do today, aside from scare the daylights out of everyone?"

"Not much," Peter says. "Mostly I puked a lot," he admits.

Natasha wrinkles her nose. "Your throat hurting you?"

"Yeah," he says, because it is. It's sour-tasting and feels like it's on fire.

"I'll get you some sorbet," she says, "and then we can talk about who you're talking to that's got you so twitchy."

Peter groans as she leaves, smiling to herself.

 

~

 

It's nearly four AM when Tony finally staggers home.

Another hour and he'll have been up twenty-four hours straight. It's not like that's a record for him, not by a long shot, but forty-two hours in the lab or the workshop hasn't got a thing on ten-plus hours dealing with Loki's bullshit followed by a marathon session putting out the onslaught of metaphorical fires caused by an incompetency-driven crisis that could have been avoided if the idiots controlling the company would admit that he knows more about the practical qualifications of the job then a bunch of corporate dickwads who wouldn't know magnesium from aluminum.

In the last eleven hours he's held two separate press conferences, one for the American late-edition and another for the Australian evening-edition, started pulling funds together to compensate the families of the workers killed, and started drafting statements for release as the story breaks. He's dragged all twenty-three Stark Industries board members out of their homes to deliver a dressing down Pepper assured him would haunt them to their deathbeds, and he's going to make damn sure the public knows exactly who appointed Bradford and that to say he opposed it is a vast understatement.

Pepper's already warned him that choosing not to fully shoulder the blame himself is going to complicate things and is likely going to result in some massive restructuring of the board. SI stock will suffer. Tony's delighted by the idea of getting rid of some of the board and the stockholders will get over it—it won't be the first major dive the stock's taken. He's not planning on trying to weasel his way out of his share of the responsibility; he knew the guy was unqualified and he should have fought harder to keep him out of the position.

He's also had to get in contact with both local and international authorities to assure them of his full and absolute cooperation with their investigations, not to mention getting the ball rolling on the internal audit. It's still too early to get started on the memorial and the funeral services, but he's already started mentally rearranging his schedule to prepare for a trip down there. Something like this, it's only right that he do as much as he can personally and do it in person. These people deserved better and since he can't do right by them, he's going to do right by the people they've left behind.

Speaking of those left behind.

Tony's had a hell of a time focusing on clean up with his worry for Peter niggling at the back of his mind all night. Sure, Steve's kept him in the loop, he's wildly relieved that it's just a spider-bite causing the rash and not some exotic disease, but it rankles, not being there, not being able to check for himself. Especially after Peter's little stunt with JARVIS' protocol.

So naturally he beelines for Peter's room when he arrives, easing open the door to peer inside.

"Welcome home, sir," JARVIS murmurs. "Peter's condition has remained unchanged since your departure. His temperature has remained essentially steady, fluctuating between 100 and 101 degrees. Doctors Banner are running a number of tests on the samples taken earlier this evening."  
  
Tony nods and lays the back of his hand against Peter's forehead for a moment before brushing his hair back from his forehead. He's slack-jawed with sleep and it makes him look like he's seven-years-old. Tony spent years being determined he'd never be the guy saying _they grow up so fast_ , but here he is and that's exactly what he's doing. Where did the kid who hid under the lab tables while he worked go and when did this kid who's a few technicalities away from having a girlfriend show up? And where the hell was he?

Peter snuffles, face turning into his pillow and Tony smiles, bending to brush a kiss on his cheek. "Love you, buddy," he whispers and retreats.

He shambles into the bedroom, debating whether or not it's worth it to go into the bathroom to wash the make-up off. He's going to have to be up in, ugh, god, _three hours_ to do the morning press conference. He's halfway to the bed before he realizes the answer is no.  
  
Steve is lying on his side with his limbs carefully tucked in. Tony drops his pants at the bedside and crawls onto the mattress, groaning softly as he drags a pillow into his arms. It's cool and welcoming and Tony lets out a breath, feeling the tension still keeping him awake start to seep out of him. He reaches over to tug on Steve's t-shirt. "H'y," he mumbles into the pillow.

Steve shifts and then rolls over, reaching out himself to curl his hand around Tony's waist as he squints at him. He doesn't say anything, just pulls Tony up against him, mouth pressing against his shoulder in a drowsy kiss.

Tony returns the favor just beneath the hollow of Steve's throat and Steve's grip tightens.

God, he's glad he didn't just pass out on the couch in Pepper's office. So worth it.

~

When Tony jerks awake in response to JARVIS' wake up call at seven AM, he's got a mother of a sleep-debt hangover. But Steve, the wonderful son of a bitch, left him a mug of coffee on the bedside table, which is just the right temperature thanks to its wait for him, and he laid out Tony's clothes at the foot of the bed. And thank _God_ for that, Tony's not sure he could tell blue from green right now.

He manages to sit up on the edge of the mattress and starts gulping down the coffee. The rush of caffeine makes his whole head throb, but it dulls after a moment, sluggish neurons starting to fire properly. He still feels like shit, but more coherent shit anyway. That's something.

When the coffee's gone Tony groans and pushes to his feet. He twists, cracking his spine with several light pops, and scrubs his hands over his face. "JARVIS, where's Steve?"

"Out for his morning run, sir."

"Hmph."

Steve's done a good job absorbing the PR team and Pepper's wardrobe lessons because he's chosen a charcoal gray suit, paired with a dark silver shirt and a somber black tie with a faint silver diamond pattern. It's one of the most subdued outfits Tony owns and it should be perfect. Tony slips into it, taking care to make sure he's got black socks—not navy blue—and that every piece is in place, unwrinkled and pristine.

He smooths a hand down his tie as he double-checks himself in the mirror. He looks impeccable from the neck down, and like shit from there up, but that's nothing some light touches of concealer and bronzer won't easily hide.

His next stop is the kitchen for a refill on his coffee, quick strides carrying him across the floor, empty mug in one hand, tablet in the other so JARVIS can display his messages and important news updates.

He grunts at the reports of how SI is doing in the overseas exchanges, knowing that's going to be nothing compared to NYSE in two and a half hours, but, actually, it could be much worse. _The board will be thrilled_ , he thinks darkly.

He sets the mug down and scrubs a hand over his face as the tablet follows, gesturing for the information on it to be thrown up on a floating display.

He loads his second mug with sugar for the boost to the caffeine but nothing can cover the bitter taste in his throat as he sees that two of the critical patients from last night have since passed away and one was downgraded in their place.

"JARVIS, add them to the list and start locating relevant family for the memorial funds."

"Already done, sir," JARVIS says, quietly somber. Tony almost wishes for the early days, when JARVIS' intonations and emotions weren't nearly so precise or diverse. A little bit of bland apathy right now would do wonders for his mood and his souring stomach.

He's not at all interested in food, but he makes and eats toast because he has to eat when he can and nausea or a dizzy spell later on won't help anything.

Once he's inundated himself with the news and started the process of assimilating it all in the back of his mind he takes a selfish moment to worry about his own life, eyes sliding to the hallway leading to Peter's room.

"How is he, JARVIS?" he asks, muttered into his coffee more than said aloud, silently mocking himself for the concession to the ridiculous notion that saying it louder might invite bad news and that if he can only keep it quiet enough, the universe won't hear and get ideas.

"His temperature has increased one degree and he has grown more restless. The rash continues to spread, though at a slowing rate."

"Shit," Tony curses wiping his hand down his face again, pressing at his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He inhales deeply and then drops his hand.

"Doctor Banner is with Peter now," JARVIS says and Tony replies, " _What?",_ bits of his mouthful of toast flying everywhere. He darts around the island and heads straight for Peter's room.

Bruce glances up when he barrels in, but turns his attention back to Peter the second he sees who it is. He's holding one of Peter's arms in his hands gingerly, the fingers of one pressing into the meat of Peter's forearm. "On a scale of one to ten?"

Peter grimaces and shrugs. "Four and a half?"

Tony smothers the urge to demand details, reminding himself that this isn't an unreasonable hour for Bruce to be up and he's probably just checking on Peter while he has the time and if he freaks out that will just scare Peter and neither Peter nor Bruce looks worried yet. So he stands back and waits, ignoring the clock in his head counting down, reminding him that Pepper's expecting him.

It's dark, still, the lingering darkness of shortening days turning the shelves and desk and piles of clothes and things, the detritus of a teenage boy's life, into darker pockets of shadow in the gloom. The darkness definitely doesn't encourage Tony's miniscule sense of optimism.

"Make sure you're drinking those fluids," Bruce says at last and Tony bites down on his knuckles to keep from barking, _Yes, he knows, now tell me what the fuck is going on!_

"Hey, Dad," Peter says, sounding surprised and pleased and exhausted. He glances at his bed table clock and adds, "You're up early."

"Factory explosion. Gotta start making amends and figuring out what the hell happened."

"The board made you hire an idiot, that's what happened."

Tony huffs. "What would you know about it?"

Peter snorts and then winces. "Ow. Dad, please. You complained about that decision for _weeks_. You predicted something like this would happen."

Tony sobers. "I hate when I'm right." He shakes out of it as Bruce approaches and says, "How're you feeling, anyway, Bambi?"

"Shitty," Peter says, blithe, and Tony lets out a bark of laughter.

"Don't let your father hear you say that, he'd throw a fit."

Peter smiles and tugs on his comforter. "Just between us, right?"

"And me," Bruce says, with a wry smile.

"Yeah, but you're the cool uncle," Tony says, Peter murmuring in agreement and Bruce laughs.

"While your attempts at flattery are amusing, I think we all know that I am not the 'cool uncle'."

"All right," Tony says, waving Bruce toward the door, "that's enough banter. I'm on a schedule here. Feel better, Bambi."

Peter flutters his fingers and Tony shoves Bruce back out into the living room. Fortunately, Bruce is agreeable and lets him. "What's going on?" Tony demands when they've put some distance between them and the bedroom. "Is he sicker?"

"Sir," JARVIS says, "you are due in the garage in two minutes."

"Tony, calm down. Breathe." He waits, watching and Tony doesn't feel like playing along when he is so clearly being patronized, but the clock is still ticking and he doesn't have time to out-stubborn Bruce—especially when Bruce usually wins, the cheater, using his meditation skills is so not fair—so he very conspicuously and noisily inhales through his nose and out through his mouth. Then he arches his eyebrows.

"Okay—"

"Again," Bruce says, and the corner of his lips are twitching and he's got that look in his eyes—not the green angry one, thank God, the amused one—but JARVIS is saying, "Sir—" and he's out of time and goddammit, fine!

He continues inhaling and exhaling, but waves a hand to indicate Bruce can speak while he's doing this stupid zen crap.

Thankfully, Bruce does, even if the smile fades away. "I'm here because Peter's temperature went up another two degrees in the last six hours. He's suffering from muscular aches as a result, but all that means is his body is fighting hard to get rid of whatever's causing this." Then Bruce hesitates and Tony knows he's not saying something.

"Dammit, Bruce. What is it? What are you not telling me?"

Bruce rubs his fingers over his lips and then admits, "The Benedryl helped with the itching, but the rash hasn't faded. If anything, it's still spreading. That shouldn't be happening almost three days after the bite occurred. Allergic reactions and venom act quickly. And it's just— I'm not an expert, Tony. I've learned a lot, especially in the last twenty years, but there's so much I don't know—"

"Do you think we should bring someone else in?"

Bruce makes a face that tells Tony he's not thrilled with the idea.

"Should we or not, _Doctor_ Banner?" Tony snaps and Bruce gives him a sharp look in return. Tony's not interested in cuddling Bruce's poor ego right now, though, he knows damn well that this isn't nearly enough to rouse Big Green from a nap.

Bruce stares back and Tony wonders if the sick, clawing feeling of helplessness is showing in his eyes, because Bruce's are suddenly full of sympathy.

"I really can't make that call. He's not getting better, yes, but he's also not getting worse in a way that suggests this is anything right now but his body working through whatever is in his system." He sighs and pulls off his glasses. "Honestly, I'm not sure if this is all related to the bite. It could just be really awful timing that he was already sick when he got bitten. Based on what we know now, I think Betty and I can handle it."

Tony grits his teeth and plants his hands on his hips, considering the floor for a long moment. "So it might not be that serious. I could just be overreacting and making a mountain out of a molehill here."

Bruce's lips twitched again at that. "Oh, no, that would be ridiculous. You would never, ever do that, Tony."

Tony huffs a laugh and lets his hands fall. "Shut up, you. I can revoke your lab privileges too, don't think I can't."

The moment passes and even though Bruce says seriously, "You need to talk to Steve, and probably include Peter too, about this." He shrugs. "And if you feel like it's necessary, call in someone else. I won't be offended. Much," it's like a weight has been lifted.

Bruce can protest his medical ignorance all he wants, but he's not an idiot any more than Tony is and he has made it a point to learn a lot more about medicine and the human body since his accident, even more since they all came together. If he's not worried, Tony shouldn't be either.

"Okay. I'll—" He glances at his watch. "Shit! I'll have to call Steve later," he says, heading out at a jog. "Thanks, Bruce. Good luck with CERN and if," he pauses at the open elevator door JARVIS is holding for him, "you know, anything happens..."

"JARVIS will keep you in the loop," Bruce promises. "And Peter won't stop him this time, either."

Tony points and levels a glare. "And we'll talk about _that_ later too."

Then the door is shutting and he leans back against the wall, letting his head fall back.

Today is going to be a long fucking day, he knows. Best to just get it over with as quickly as possible.

~ Chapter Nine ~

 

"Steve, I'm sending him home for you to deal with. If I have to listen to him bitch about how _keeping the company running normally during a crisis_ is not his priority, I'm going to strangle him and then we'll really have a mess on our hands," Pepper bursts the moment Steve accepts her call. She sounds like she's hanging on to her composure by a thread, which tells him a lot about how Tony must be acting, so he smothers his smile and sets down the knife he's slicing up a tomato with and leans back against the counter to listen.

"That bad, huh?"

Pepper makes a growling sound and Steve has to cover his mouth to stifle his chuckle. Wow, he's really got her riled up. Then she sighs and Steve can practically hear her deflate. "I know he's worried about Peter and he feels guilty about the people who were killed and, based on the size of the bags under his eyes, he hasn't been sleeping enough _again_ , but I need him right now."

"What do you need from him?" Steve asks.

"Paperwork," Pepper says and it sounds like she's lost all hope. "Essentially. There are several things he's already supposed to have signed off on and he _hasn't_ and if he would just get it over with, it would be one less thing for me to worry about. I used to be able to cajole him into doing these things with minimal fuss, but..."

Steve nods. "That was when you worked for him full time."

Pepper sighs again. "Yes."

"Sir," JARVIS says, and there's a certain ominousness to his tone, "Mister Stark is coming up the elevator."

Steve raises his eyebrows and says, "Thanks for the heads up. Pepper, I'll do what I can. When do you need him back?"

"The next press conference is at six PM. I'll be there with Happy at five."

She hangs up just as the elevator doors glide open.

"God _damn_ it!" Tony snarls, hands curling into claws, and Steve tugs out his cell phone as he moves to greet him, tapping the _Avengers Assemble_ shortcut.

"Technology's not all it's cracked up to be," Steve says as he slips the phone back into his pocket. "Used to be you could slam a door, get out some of that frustration."

Tony shoots him a poisonous look. "Bite your tongue, Luddite."

Steve smiles and sidles a little closer, ducking his head.

"Oh, no," Tony says, waving a finger. "Don't start with that _Leave It to Beaver_ bullshit."

"Tony," he says, sliding his hands in his pockets and peeking up at him.

"Stop that!" Tony demands. "I'm pissed off!"

"Sure are," Steve says and he's gotten close enough to reach for the buttons on Tony's jacket. He starts undoing them, brushing Tony's hands away when he starts batting at his fingers.

"What are you doing home anyway?" he snaps. "I'm not staying. Pepper's got another thing coming if she thinks I'm gonna nap. I'm not a toddler. _Would you stop that?!_ "

Steve looks up at him without moving his head, well aware that it makes him look sweet and boyish and _that_ makes it nearly impossible for Tony to hold on to his anger. He can already see Tony's resolve wavering.

"Lousy day, huh?" he says, and Tony stares at him as he slides his hands under the collar of the jacket, slipping it free of Tony's shoulders.

"This is not working," Tony says. "I still hate everyone."

"Even me?" Clint says from his spot on the couch where they'd been discussing training scenarios. Tony jerks under Steve's hands, obviously just now becoming aware of the archer's presence. "That hurts, Stark. That hurts my soul."

Tony's face twists with fresh annoyance and Steve tugs him closer until they're all but sharing the same space. Clint, eternal teenager that he is, starts making exaggerated gagging noises.

"Ignore him," Steve murmurs, stepping close to catch the jacket. He can feel the heat of Tony's skin against his cheek. Tony grunts and Steve feels his fingers on his stomach. The last of the defiance in his gaze starts to ebb.

Then a bolt of lightning cracks the dark sky outside and thunder rattles the glass.

The elevator door opens to reveal Bruce and Natasha and from the couch, Clint drawls, "Guess who."

Some residual crackles of lightning and thunder grumble outside and Tony growls, "Damn drama queen," and pulls away. Steve sighs.

Clint makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a hacking cough at the absolute irony in that statement, but Tony just points a finger at him without bothering to look and snaps, "Are you sick? Thinking about getting sick? Get out."

Clint waves his hands, points at his throat and chokes, "Saliva—breathed it—"

"Yeah, I don't care," Tony says.  
  
The doors to the Iron Man landing platform glide open and Thor bounds through, his arms spread joyfully. Tony stalks forward to greet him with an expression as black as the clouds outside the window, but before he can get a word out, Thor has swept him up into a hug.

"Brother!" he exclaims and Tony makes a breathless noise of indignation, his toes almost a foot off the ground. Thor sets him down a little too hard and the next noise Tony makes is pained, his knees almost buckling. He gets a white-knuckled grip on Thor's arm and Thor grips his arms in return, his face twisting into an expression of sincerest concern. "Heimdall summoned me to the bridge, he said young Peter has been overtaken by some affliction?"

"What have I told you about the man-handling?" Tony demands, grimacing and rubbing at his knee. "Jesus, I think you broke something."

Thor immediately looks contrite, reaching to touch Tony's shoulder, his grip more ginger and his gaze focused on the hand Tony has at his knee. "I apologize, I was distressed to hear of Peter's illness and I have not remembered myself. Do you need to be seated?"

Tony gives him a dirty look, but lays off the rubbing and mutters, "No, no," and the rest drops under his breath, too low to understand.

Thor glances around the room, his face brightening when he sees Clint, Natasha, and Bruce. "Sister!" he says warmly, moving forward to grasp Natasha's elbows. He kisses her cheek and she smiles, leans up on her tiptoes to kiss both of his. "It has been too long."  
  
"It has," she agrees and he releases her to drag Clint and Bruce into a hug.

"Brothers." Clint rolls his eyes, patting Thor's back as his face is mashed into the demi-god's chest plate and Bruce flushes, patting Thor's elbow gingerly.

"Good to see you, too, Thor," he says.

Then Thor relinquishes his grip on them as well and his gaze moves to where Steve stands and all of the merriness in his face fades away. He strides forward, hauling Steve into a rib-crushing hug. Steve can't help but smile, hugging back. "Hey, Thor. We've missed you around here."

"And I you," Thor says. "Things in Asgard have been, well... _strained_ shall we say." He waves his hand before Steve can ask and says, "But I have not come to speak of my troubles. How fares mine nephew?"

"He fares fine." The six of them turn to see Peter standing in the hall doorway in his pajamas, smiling despite his clear exhaustion. "Hey, Uncle Thor."

"What are you doing out of bed?" Tony demands.

"It went from vaguely gray to thunderstorms in, like, two seconds. I know the signs. Besides, I'm on the household _Assemble_ list, remember?"

Tony frowns and turns to look at Steve. "Well, that explains why our living room has been invaded, but not _why."_

Steve shrugs. "Pepper told me about the board."

Tony stares at him. "And you thought an impromptu party was the best way to deal with that?"

"I thought we could all keep Peter company," he replies. "He's getting cabin fever."

Tony's eyes go a little darker. "You're just trying to distract me. These bums are just your back up."

Steve smiles sunnily. "Could be, but Peter looks pretty happy, don't you think?" He waves a hand to where Peter has his arm hooked around Thor's neck, laughing.

Tony's expression softens when he looks over. "All right, all right," he grumbles. "But I'm not going to calm down."

"I think I'd throw myself off the building if you did," Clint says as he heads to the kitchen to raid the fridge.

"Is that supposed to be clever? You throw yourself off of buildings everyday. I'd be hard-pressed to find a building you _haven't_ thrown yourself off of."

"I'm waiting on intel right now, Tony," Natasha says, flicking his arm with the end of her scarf. "I could go with you to Bundaberg if you like."

Tony sighs and Steve is pleased to see his temper fizzle out. It leaves him looking exhausted and resigned, but at least he's not wasting his energy being angry about things he can't change. "Thanks, Natasha, but I can handle it. I just don't _want_ to. Bunch of slimy ingrates."

Over by the couch, Thor is removing the less forgiving parts of his Asgardian clothing, laying the armor out on a chair while he catches up with Peter, his smile wide and fond.

It's been nearly two months since his last visit; apparently introducing the new Queen of Asgard to the Nine Realms is quite the to-do.

The rest of the room is equally full of chatter; nowadays group gatherings are a special occasion kind of occurrence. With everyone's schedules it gets difficult to orchestrate them. Steve smiles to himself, just allowing himself to enjoy the pleasure of having everyone he loves together again. They've come a long way since those early days—since his extraction from the ice.

He gets a special kick out of watching the others check up on Peter, brushing lingering hands through his hair and asking if he has everything he needs. Clint joins him on the couch with a carton of Tony's favorite ice cream, offering him a spoonful. He laughs at the dirty look Peter gives him for his trouble.

It takes nearly an hour for all of them to settle in and by then Peter's got an enormous cache of goods piled within easy reach—everything from a plastic-bag lined trash can to a worn stuffed pale yellow duck with a drooping red and white gingham bow around it's neck. Nobody's sure where the duck came from originally, but it shows up whenever someone's feeling less than a hundred percent.

Tony is equally well-looked after, if more subtly. He's got a drink thanks to Darcy and a pillow thanks to Bruce and he's slumped down on the couch, looking good and relaxed except for the way his expression darkens when he's not being spoken to.

Steve is the last to sit, right between Tony and Peter.

"Start 'er up, J," Tony calls. "Pep's gonna be on my ass again in no time."

As the movie starts, Steve threads his fingers through Tony's and tugs. Tony grunts and slumps sideways into the crook of his shoulder. "Shit, I'm tired," he mutters and breathes in, sinking more fully against Steve's side.

Steve doesn't answer because he knows the second he mentions sleep, Tony will remain obstinately awake. So he shushes Tony instead and starts to brush his thumb back and forth, back and forth over the back of Tony's hand.

He's asleep before the opening credits have ended.

By the time the ending credits roll, he's slumped over in Steve's lap, drooling on his thigh.

"One more," Bruce says from where he's sitting at Betty's feet, head on her knee. She has her fingers buried in his curls and his eyes are only half-open.

"I'm game," Clint says. A ripple of seconding goes through the room, followed by, "But after I get a refill," and "Need to pee, then totally."

Steve is both hungry again and needing to empty his bladder, so he slips out from under Tony, smiling at his mumble of discontent and takes off for the head.

"Hey, Thor," he calls when he's returned and stuck his head in the fridge. "You want something to eat?"

He laughs at the expected, "I am famished, certainly!"

"I thought you might be."

~

"So, uh, did Heimdall see what made me sick?" Peter asks, trying to look more curious than worried. Thor leans sideways on the couch, resting his head on Peter's shoulder.

"Nay, he merely saw you were staying home from school as he made his rounds."

"Your head's like a brick, Uncle Thor," Peter complains, relieved. The longer he's sick, the more nervous he is something's gone wrong, or that somebody will figure it out and try to reverse it.

Thor tilts his head back, grinning. He leans a little more of his weight on Peter.

"Oh my god, you're crushing me." He gasps exaggeratedly.

"You know, Heimdall cannot see any more than you or I would be able," Thor says as he mashes Peter into the sofa cushions. Peter groans ineffectually. "He would not be able to see an illness taking hold." He leans back suddenly and Peter blinks up at him, dazed. He's frowning. "Do you have reason to think Heimdall would have seen your illness begin?"

"No," Peter blurts and feels his face turn red. Thor frowns more deeply. "Really," Peter insists, and anyone other than Uncle Thor would be able to smell the smoke coming off his pants. "I just thought he might have seen somebody chewing on my pen or something."

Thor relaxes, a mischievous smile slipping across his face. "Someone like your Gwen Stacy?"

~

Steve is heating up some chicken soup on the stove, boiling up some extra noodles to throw in when he hears Thor's voice suddenly rise, alarmed, followed by the _pop-crash_ of a glass hitting the tile.

"Is anyone hurt?" he calls over his shoulder.

"What the _hell,_ Thor," Tony demands, slurring groggily.

"I did nothing!"

"There's glass everywhere, I wouldn't say that's noth..." Tony trails off and after a second of silence, says warily, "Peter?"

Steve turns, frowning, when he hears no response.

"Peter?" Tony barks and then his head pops up over the back of the couch, shouting, " _Bruce!"_

"I did _nothing_ ," Thor insists again, white-faced. "I do not understand—"

Steve's stomach lurches. "Tony, what is it? What's wrong?"

" _BETTY!"_

"I'm here, Tony!" Bruce replies, harried, and he freezes as he reaches the couch, a moment of plain shock crossing his face before he finds his composure. Steve turns the burner off with a snap, tossing aside the dishtowel in his hands and rushing to join them.

"Dammit, will one of you tell me what's..."

He skirts around the couch and Tony's in his sight-line, yelling, " _What's wrong with him?_ "

"Calm down," Bruce orders, waving Tony's hands away from Peter and he snatches them back.

Then Steve finally sees Peter and his stomach trickles down to his toes.

Peter's eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, his right hand hanging limp over the edge of the couch and his left making small grasping gestures at his stomach. His head is hanging at a slight angle, moving in a triangular shape over and over like he's dropping off to sleep and waking again and again.

But he's not—he's not _there._ He's not _Peter_ and the fear prickles on Steve's skin like a living thing, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet.

"It's a seizure," Bruce explains patiently and Steve's knees turn to jelly. He sinks onto the couch next to Tony, staring.

A seizure.

"Oh, fuck," Tony says and Steve's never heard his voice, thin and wavering like that before.

"Bruce," Betty says, voice still calm and measured, "call the medical bay and have them prep a bed." Then she turns her attention to them and says, "Stay calm. He's all right."

Steve wants to yell, _He sure as hell doesn't look all right!_

But Betty is looking into Peter's face, saying, "You're probably scared, Peter, but it's okay. You're okay. What you're experiencing right now is just a seizure. You're safe."

" _Just a seizure_ ," Tony repeats, sounding strangled.

"He was _well,_ " Thor says, and his blue eyes are over-bright. "We were talking of Gwen Stacy and—the glass slipped from his fingers—he would not _respond—"_

"Thor, it's okay," Bruce says, glancing up at him. He's not touching Peter, not doing anything to fix this—this _seizure—_ why isn't he doing anything? "You didn't do anything wrong. This isn't your fault."

" _Do something, Banner_ ," Steve hears himself demand, and geez, what's wrong with him, he hasn't called Bruce by his surname in _years._

Bruce's gaze turns to him, still maddeningly patient. "There's nothing _to_ do, Steve. Peter's okay. I know it's pretty scary to see, but he's not thrashing so he's not a danger to himself. He'll come out of it."

Just then Peter's whole body loosens, his head dipping forward like he's falling asleep. Bruce catches him, keeping him from slumping forward with a gentle hand cupped around the side of his neck, the other resting gingerly against his shoulder. "Peter," he says, low and soothing, "can you squeeze my fingers?"

Peter must do it because Bruce smiles and says, "Good, good. You're probably a little overwhelmed right now, so I'm not going to ask you any questions. What you just experienced was a partial seizure. It's not a good sign, but the seizure itself is not going to hurt you. It won't affect your brain and it's not a sign of brain damage either, so don't worry about that, all right? You're okay. You're safe."

"What's happening to me?" Peter asks in a small voice and Steve presses a hand down over his mouth.

"I don't know, Peter," Bruce says honestly, "but we're going to find out."

~ Chapter Ten ~

 

_'I could be making a mountain out of a molehill here.'_ _Did I actually fucking_ say _that?_ Tony thinks as he paces alongside the couch, his knuckles pressed into his mustache.

Betty relayed the message that the bed in medical was ready a few minutes ago, but Peter's still curled up on the couch between Bruce and Steve, blinking drowsily at Clint while he cleans up the shattered glass. Tony can't get the image of Peter's thousand-yard-stare out of his head.

"JARVIS," Betty says suddenly, "What is Peter's temperature?"

"One-hundred and three degrees Fahrenheit, madam," JARVIS replies promptly.

Betty catches Bruce's eye and they share a significant look before Bruce asks, "And what was it an hour ago?"

"One-hundred and one point six."

Tony blinks at the smile that breaks out across Bruce's face. "What?" he demands. "What does that mean?"

"Peter, when's the last time you took Tylenol?" Bruce asks instead of answering.

Peter shrugs. "I dunno. This morning maybe?"

Bruce practically beams in response. "That's good?" Steve says, his hand curling around Peter's a little more tightly.

"Yes, that's good," Betty says before Tony can snap. "Peter's temperature rose almost a degree and a half in an hour. Which means—"

"It was likely a febrile seizure," Bruce finishes. "It's unusual for them to occur in teenagers, but not unheard of. Peter really is fine. His body was just responding to the rapid rise in temperature. If we administer regular doses of Tylenol it shouldn't happen again."

"You can stop being the exception anytime now, Pete," Clint comments and straightens up, waggling the little hand-held vac he's got. "Think I got it all."

"Thank God," Steve murmurs and hooks his hand around Peter's jaw, dragging him over so he can plant a kiss on the side of his head.

"I still think we should take him down to the MedBay," Betty says and Bruce nods.

"I agree, it will be easier to track the administration of each dose and there are a few tests I'd like to do to see if we can get a more concrete diagnosis."

"Great. Fantastic. Sounds like a plan to me. Steve—"

"I've got him," Steve says with a nod. He and Bruce are getting to their feet when the elevator door slides open.

"Pepper!" Steve says, guilt thick in his voice. "I forgot, I'm sorry."

She waves a hand. "It's all right I'm almost an hour early. Did you at least get him to sleep a little?"

"Almost two hours," Steve replies and Pepper looks relieved to hear it.

"I'll take it," she says. "Tony, we need to get moving, Happy's waiting. There was another incident and the press conference has been canceled. I've made arrangements for us to leave in—two hours and forty-three minutes. You need to pack, now."

"You moved the flight up twelve hours? What the hell happened? I might be able to catch up with you, but I think you're gonna have to go this one alone—"

"I've already informed Bradford's second-in-command that we're coming and we're expected at the hospital as soon as we land. It will be the middle of the night there, but the injured investigator insisted. I know this isn't a good time, but these things rarely are—"

"That's the understatement of the millennia. Peter's _sick,_ Pepper—"

"—and I realize that, but there's been a secondary explosion at the factory."

"Are you even listening to me? _Peter had a seizure._ "

There's a moment of silence as everything sinks in, then, simultaneously: " _What?"_

"A _seizure?_ Oh my god, Tony, that's—"

"You've got to be shitting me. Another explosion?"

Pepper's staring at Peter, wide-eyed, so it takes a beat for her to absorb what he's said. Then she drags her eyes away and smooths a hand over her hair—it's a steadying gesture that has nothing to do with grooming, and says, "I—yes. Late this afternoon. Or, well, I guess tomorrow morning over there, but—oh my god. _Tony_."

"Yeah, I know," Tony says, sighing. "Bruce and Betty say he's fine, though. For certain values of fine. Fuck. That means I've gotta go, doesn't it? How bad was it?"

"One of the investigators was injured."

"Shit. This is rapidly becoming the week from hell." Tony starts pacing again, mind racing. "Okay, so wheels up in two hours and..."

"Thirty-eight minutes," Pepper supplies quickly.

"I'll pack your things," Natasha says. "You and Steve should go down to medical with Peter."

Tony nods slowly. Yeah. That sounds...that sounds good. "If you have any questions—"

"I can ask JARVIS."

"Darcy and I can clean up here," Clint adds. "Go."

Tony swallows and nods, and not for the first time in his life, is astoundingly grateful that these are the people he wound up with.

"Do we have to move?" Peter asks, pulling his blanket closer. "I'm tired." He looks like he's barely keeping his eyes open, so "tired" seems like a vast understatement.

"I'll carry you," Steve says and everyone seems to take that as their cue to disperse.

Pepper steps into place next to Tony and says quietly, "I'm sorry, Tony. If there was any way..."

He sighs and nudges her arm with his elbow. "I know, Pep. Maybe next time don't let so many assholes onto the board."

Pepper smiles and replies, "I think it was _you_ who let them on, Tony."

"Was it? Still. You're supposed to keep me from doing stupid things."

"I'll make a note of it," she says dryly. Then Steve approaches carrying Peter, who has wrapped his arms around Steve's neck, his ankles hooking around the back of Steve's thighs, clinging the way he used to when he was still young enough to be getting carried around. A sharp stabbing sensation strikes him right behind the arc reactor and he's barely aware of Pepper murmuring, "No more than an hour, if you can, Tony."

Steve adjusts his grip, because Peter's a lot bigger than he used to be and then presses his nose into the skin behind Peter's ear, breathing deep and Tony's heart staggers hard. "You okay?" Steve asks, quiet, and Peter nods once, his head resting heavily on Steve's shoulder.

"Tired," he mumbles.

"Let's go get him settled," Tony says and clears his throat when his voice breaks a little at the end.

Thor follows the three of them, Bruce, and Betty into the elevator and Tony has to actively beat back a spike of irritation. Thor didn't actually _do_ anything and he came all the way from another _realm_ to visit his sick nephew so being annoyed with him is a less than kind. Logic is useless in this case, however, and rather than snapping at Thor for being a doting uncle, Tony focuses his attention on Peter, and what little time he's got left.

He follows close behind Steve, the fingers of his right hand hooked into the waistband of Steve's pants so he can keep his eyes on Peter without having to pay attention to where he's going. Peter blinks blearily at him a few times and then smiles and Tony forgets how to breathe.

"Hey, kiddo," he says when the short in his brain repairs itself. Even sick as a dog, his kid's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Peter mumbles something in return, too quiet and too mangled to understand, his eyes drooping shut. Tony never got the watching people sleep thing, not until Peter. Now he gets it; hell, he watches Peter sleep at least once a week, sometimes when he can't sleep himself, sometimes after a mission, sometimes just because he can. It crams him full of all these emotions, things he has no idea what to do with, but it's _good_ in a way, cathartic, and he just goes and watches Peter, lets it all wash over him.

When they get to the MedBay, it's basically empty aside from a scientist who shucked out of his lab coat so the night shift doctor can get a look at something Tony can't see on his arm.

"Hank, we're heading into the isolation room," Bruce calls and the doctor glances up just long enough to flash them a thumbs up.

"You prepped the isolation room?" Tony says, tensing.

"I chose it because it will give Peter a little bit of privacy," Bruce explains. "It's not easy to sleep in the main bay with injured scientists coming in and out and he needs as much rest as he can get."

"Oh," Tony says, winding down. "Oh. How thoughtful of you."

Bruce slips him a smile over his shoulder. "I try."

They troop through a door in the center of the bay that opens into a small lab. The far wall of the lab is a special transparent polymer—Stark technology, of course—that's radiation absorbent. A trait which the entire room shares, as well as being capable of producing a negative pressure environment. It's basically an all-purpose room for housing patients who are highly contagious and/or radioactive (the radioactive part is abnormal, but had been one of Bruce's requirements if he was going to stay). Bruce has never needed to be locked down in it, but there had been an incident, probably five years ago, when some idiot had said _fuck protocol_ and experimented with irradiation on a rabbit he'd brought in from _home._

The radiation meters in the building had gone apeshit and Steve had already half assembled the team as per Unplanned Hulk-Out protocol when JARVIS reported that Bruce was...occupied and definitely _not_ Hulking-out.

Anyway, one thing had led to another and they'd stuck the rabbit into the isolation room to prevent it from irradiating the whole damn Tower. It had gone through some really unpleasant changes before finally expiring and, come to think of it, that had been the incident that had gotten Scabel fired.

He remembers the last time he was in here and the raw-skinned, steroid-injected look of the dying rabbit, eugh, and shudders.

"Dad?" Peter questions as Steve eases him into the bed, one hand curled around the back of his neck to support his lolling head. "Y'okay?"

Tony smiles at him. "Yeah, Bambi, I'm fine. You?"

He groans a little and lets out a gusty sigh. "Nauseated again. Yay."

"Run roughshod by a life-form you can't even see," Tony says, tsking and shaking his head.

"Better than being run roughshod by Justin Hammer," Peter says and Steve barks out a surprised laugh. Tony makes a scandalized noise.

Peter's chuckles are cut short by a jaw-cracking yawn. "Could sleep for a week," he mumbles around the tail end of it.

"Why don't you do that, smartass," Tony says. Steve retreats from the bed to give Bruce a little room to work and Tony lets him envelop him, chest against Tony's back so they can both watch while Peter yawns as Bruce slides an IV into the back of his hand.

Steve's holding on a little tighter than usual and Tony can feel the tension humming through him everywhere they touch. He leans his head into Steve's jaw and murmurs for both of them, "He's gonna be fine."

"I don't doubt it, but I still don't want you to go," Steve admits in a low voice, like it's a dirty secret. It's not often he voices selfish thoughts like that, he likes to keep his shame private, and a small spark of warmth kindles in Tony's chest, the way it does every time Steve demonstrates his trust like this.

"Believe me, no one's less excited about this than I am," he mutters.

"All right, Dads," Bruce says, turning to them with a crooked smile. "He's all set. I'll be out in the lab if you have any questions."

"Thank you, Bruce," Steve says. "And I'm sorry about earlier."

Bruce waves off his apology. "This is—it's nothing, really." He shrugs and glances over his shoulder. "It's Peter."

"Gee," Peter says, blinking drowsily at him, "don't I feel special."

"All right, that's enough out of you," Tony growls and hops up on the bed, shuffling forward on his knees. "Budge over you little brat. There's enough room on this bed for someone three times the size of your scrawny butt, how are you taking up so much of it?" Peter moans and groans, but he wriggles over and Tony snaps his fingers at Steve, then points at the other side of the bed. "Come on, you too."

Steve joins them without protest and they squash Peter in between them, Tony lifting his arm to give him room and then crushing him against his side, chin hooked over his head.

God, he really doesn't want to go.

"Ow, Dad, jeez, if you want to squeeze something make Dad go get Mr. Waddles."

Tony ignores him because Peter's arm has snaked around his back and he's dug his fingers into Tony's shirt. He presses a kiss to Peter's forehead and says, "Look, I won't be gone long and you're gonna be fine because Bruce and Betty are almost as smart as I am—"

"Nice, Dad."

"—and Steve will be here—" He loosens his grip on Peter just enough to find Steve's hand so he can give it a rough squeeze. "—and it really, really sucks that I have to go when you're sick like this, but I'll get what needs to be done done as fast as I can. Two or three days, tops, Pepper willing. I just—"

He squeezes Peter again. "I'm lucky, all right, I've still got you guys, despite living in the middle of a shitstorm and there are a bunch of kids in Australia who haven't got that luxury anymore and I have to say I'm sorry about that."

"Dad," Peter mumbles into his shoulder, "it's okay. I'm fifteen, not five. I get it."

"Don't remind me," Tony growls.

Peter squirms impossibly closer and curls up against Tony's side, the tips of his unruly hair resting tickling the line of Tony's goatee. Now that they've stopped talking he's already fast succumbing to sleep. Tony soothes his hand up and down Peter's arm and kisses him again and again, just because Peter's here and alive and, god, thank _God._ If something ever happened to him—

He cuts off that line of thought savagely.

Australia's going to be bad enough without starting that shit now.

Despite his effusive shower of affection, Peter drops off, mouth hanging open slightly. Tony brushes the pad of his thumb so lightly across the dark half-moons under Peter's eyes and feels his stomach tie itself up. _Fuck,_ he doesn't want to go.

Then Steve reaches for his hand and for a minute their twined fingers rest over Peter's stomach.

"Go, Tony," Steve says. "Go do what you need to so you can come home."

Carefully, Tony eases Peter over to Steve's shoulder and then leans across him to kiss Steve, pressing into his mouth harder than is really necessary, until it hurts, and Steve's fingers are tight enough to bruise on his hand.

Then he rips himself away. "Okay," he says breathlessly. "Keep me updated."

"Absolutely," Steve says, nodding solemnly. Tony's distracted by the red, shiny gloss of his lips.

"I love you," he croaks.

Steve smiles. "I'll see you soon."

Tony nods and finally, finally leaves them. There's a sick, twisted feeling somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach he can't shake. God, tomorrow's gonna suck.

~ Chapter Eleven ~

 

The next morning Steve gets a text from Tony just after ten.

Tony 10:06 10.11.39

just landed. what'd I miss?

Steve smiles and texts back:

Not much. No more seizures. Peter slept

through the night.

Tony 10:07 10.11.39

thank god. makes one of us anyway. I slept

like shit. had a panic attack.

Steve grimaces. He hadn't expected much else, not with everything that was going on, but he had kind of hoped Tony was wiped out enough. Silly, considering Tony's primary reaction to stress is sleeplessness.

Tony 10:08 10.11.39

put on about a gallon of foundation, now

were off to meet the co 2ic then a meet

& greet with the families. what are you doing?

Steve glances up from the phone as he steps out the doors of Avengers Tower and shivers as the wind whips him in the face, icy tendrils slipping past his collar. He flips up the one on his jacket and zips it up tight before he steps out onto the busy sidewalk and looks down at the phone again.

_On my way to Chirelli's,_ he types, apologizing when he bumps a passerby.

Tony's next text doesn't come until he's walking through the polished brass doors, sighing in relief at the heat that draws him in.

Tony 10:11 10.11.39

you bastard. we haven't gone in weeks and

you're going without me? I am scandalized.

look how scandalized I am.

A second later he gets a photo from Tony, in which he's wearing a wide-eyed o-mouthed expression that makes Steve laugh.

Pete asked for a hot chocolate. I couldn't say no.

He's been meaning to rope the two of them into going for awhile now because it's one of the few places they can go and pretend for a little while that they're a regular family with regular problems. A worm of guilt wriggles unpleasantly through his gut because he knows behind Tony's playful outrage there's a seed of real disappointment.

We'll go together when you get back. My treat.

Tony 10:12 10.11.39

damn straight.

Steve joins the line for the café—there's another for just the bakery and he's never seen either of them less than twenty people deep. One of the employees, a young woman with dark brown skin and a neatly pinned puff of hair on the left side of her head beneath the Chirelli trademark bowler, flashes a gleaming smile and calls, "Long time no see, Captain!"

A few heads swivel to look and Steve ducks his head instinctively, but smiles, waving in return. However, today the crowd seems to be filled with New Yorkers and even the most interested lookers turn back to what they were doing after a moment.

Chirelli's is an old-world style place with a wall of enormous arched windows overlooking the street, embedded in walls the color of butter, trimmed with embellishments the golden hue of croissants, and milk marble counter tops. The employees wear pristine white uniforms, neatly pressed half aprons falling to the shins of their crisp black slacks and military-shined dress shoes. There's no music because even if there were it would be impossible to hear over the call and response of orders being taken and the bubbly, exuberant chatter of those in line or sitting at the clusters of tables just past the long pastry counter.

"How are you?" the girl asks. "Where are Peter and Tony?"

"Tony's working," Steve replies. "Peter's sick. That's why I'm here. He asked for a Chirelli's hot cocoa."

She smiles, dark eyes twinkling. "Can do. Anything else?"

Steve glances at the cases and up at the menu and says, "I don't suppose you know everyone's usual?"

She grins. "I'm sure the five of us can put our heads together."

~

 

"Yesss," Peter says when Steve returns and hands over his hot cocoa. He accepts it with two hands. "Thanks, Dad."

"You're welcome," he murmurs. Steve takes his free hand in his own and runs the pads of his fingers over the smooth skin covering the small bones of his hand. Peter's got pianist's hands—slender, but strong and deft like Tony's. They'd been as long as the first knuckle of Steve's thumb when Peter was born, unbelievably tiny and silky to the touch. They're rougher now, bigger, but they still fit inside his palm, easy. Peter's nowhere near done growing so it's possible one day that won't be true anymore.

He curls his hand around Peter's, trying to memorize the way it feels tucked inside his. Steve's going to miss this. Peter already refuses to hold his hand where anyone might see and Steve knows it won't be long before he'll stop allowing it all together. He's stroking the coarse hairs on the back of Peter's wrist, the ones that grow thicker and darker every day it seems like, when Peter nudges his arm with the cup. A flush creeps up Steve's neck.

"I can hear you brooding, Dad," Peter says.

"I'm not," Steve protests. "I'm just—"

"Trying to find the meaning of the universe in my arm hair?"  
  
Steve huffs and rolls his eyes. He's been in the practice of expressing himself, plainly as he can, ever since he woke up and found out all the chances he'd missed out on because he'd believed there'd be time later. He's been determined to never stand in his own way like that again, but somehow Tony's flippancy in the face of vulnerability has rubbed off on Peter instead. So Peter squirms when Steve looks him in the eye and says, "Just trying to remember how this feels. I know you're not going to stand for it much longer. I'm going to miss things like this."

"What, me being sick as a dog?" Peter says, his eyes dropping and bouncing off of their entwined hands.

Steve doesn't let him get away with the deflection, just like he doesn't let Tony. "No. Holding your hand." Peter colors a little and Steve leans forward and kisses his forehead, feels a pang of worry at how hot his skin is. "I love you, Pete, always have and I always will. Doesn't make it easier, watching you outgrow me."

Peter looks up at him through his eyelashes, reproving. He looks exactly like Tony when he does that. "Don't be stupid, Dad. I'm never gonna outgrow you." He loops his arms around Steve's neck and for a second, nothing else matters.

"You know how much your dad and I love you, don't you, Peter?" he asks, quiet.

Peter snorts and squeezes him a little bit tighter. "Dad, there are a lot of things I have doubts about, but that is _never_ going to be one of them."

 

~

It's been a long time since Tony felt like he deserved to be called The Merchant of Death, but today he feels it every inch.

Seventeen people are dead.

The investigator that had been injured the day before had suffered a concussion in the secondary explosion and while he and Pepper flew over New Zealand, complications arose, setting off a chain of increasingly desperate attempts to reverse the effects to no avail. He'd died as they were landing.

Tony can't even fully pin that one on Bradford. The safety of the building should have been verified before anyone went in.

It's too little too late, but Tony makes sure the first thing he does on arrival is put on the suit and go to the factory to _personally_ ascertain whether or not the facility is safe enough for a new team of investigators to do their thing. Pepper isn't happy about it, but he spends the first seven hours of the trip going through the factory inch by inch scanning for potential hazards. He even streams a live feed of the process to the investigators and the board to ensure no one can accuse him of tampering with evidence.

All he cares about is making sure no one else dies.

Pepper has arranged to have a Rhys Barker suit in his size delivered to the hotel by the time he joins her in just in time for the morning edition press conference, insisting that being seen wearing a suit made by the nation's current darling designer will earn him a few brownie points with the Australian people, and he needs all the brownie points he can get. It's black—everything he's wearing is, actually—and tapered at the ankles, which isn't a look Tony's particularly fond of, but after an hour with a tailor he has to admit it's a sharp, sleek design. It makes his shoulders broad and his waist _tiny._ Like, he's almost got _Steve's_ proportions in the thing, and Steve's hip-to-waist ratio is worshiped by designers the world over.

He and Pepper have prepped in exhausting detail for every imaginable question the reporters can throw at them, but twenty minutes in, Tony gets a question neither of them could have anticipated.

"Mister Stark!" one of the American guys shouts. Tony points at him, holding back a grimace as best he can, because he recognizes him and he's one of the biggest creeps they have to put up with. It's better to hear what the jackass has to say now, or he'll just get more irritating. Around him, the other reporters settle down, going quiet in deference so when Kenmore speaks, his voice rings through the room.

"How does your husband feel about taking care of your sick kid when you're halfway around the world?"

Tony stills; no one should know about Peter. How the _fuck_ do they know? He nearly blurts that out loud, but manages to stifle the urge at the last second. The reporters have already scented blood in the water though.

He wants to lie, to tell them Peter isn't sick, he's just taking a few personal days and it's none of their business because the last thing he wants is for reporters to be beating down the doors while Pete's feeling under the weather and Steve's stressed to begin with. But if he lies and they find out Peter _was_ sick, it'll be an even bigger nightmare.

Pepper touches his arm, a warning and a show of support all at once, and he attempts to keep the enmity out of his voice. He does, really. He shifts on his feet and starts to say, "Are you trying to tell me you think Steve—"

But he's been quiet too long and the guy barrels on, demands, "Do you think he resents being turned into Susie Homemaker?"

This is an old hat line of questioning—Tony's not sure what the public's obsession with turning Steve into a doting housewife is, but everything questions like these imply is just flat out stupid. "Okay," he says with a little more peevishness than he really means to, "Number one, if he _were_ Susie Homemaker, he'd do it better than she did, and be doing it because he _wanted_ to, so if you're trying to be insulting you're not doing a very good job. And number _two_ , Steve and I share parenting duties equally and I'd be there _right now_ , but I feel it is my dutyto support our Stark Industries family and the families of the people who so tragically lost their lives in this incident. So if we could get back to talking about _that_ instead of my personal life—"

"Does that mean you place your 'Stark Industries family' above your own family?"

Tony has to bite his cheek to keep from snapping. "No," he says, enunciating very carefully. "It means right now Peter is doing better than Stark Industries is and _therefore,_ I have prioritized accordingly. Kids get sick and he's being treated and he's doing fine. Just because he's got superheroes for parents doesn't make him immune to the sniffles. Next question."

Unfortunately, nobody else steps up with a question that's actually _relevant_ because Kenmore might be the king asshole, but the rest of them are still reporters and they're all leaning forward, vultures with their recorders posed to catch this juicy complication. Kenmore presses on, "So you're not worried?"

"Of course I am, he's my goddamn kid." Pepper's hand tightens around his elbow and Tony has to deliberately loosen his fingers on the lectern and lean back. He rolls his shoulders, trying to dispel some of the tension that's gathered between them.

"And you're saying it's not serious, even though it's been a week since he was last seen in public?"

Surprised whispers ripple through the crowd and one voice rises up from the back. "Is that true?"  
  
"He was last seen leaving from school Friday night," Kenmore replies.

Pepper speaks up before Tony can. "People, can we please get back to the reason we're here?"

But Kenmore just turns back with that goddamn _gleam_ in his eye that says he's got something else up his sleeve, something _good_. "So you have no comment on the hospitalization of your son?"

A wave of dread turns Tony's stomach to ice. That's not—that can't be right. Steve would have _called_. He wouldn't _not_ have called him if Peter had gotten worse. There's no way.

His hand gropes at his jacket pockets as Kenmore says with a growing sense of delight,"You didn't know." He pushes forward between two of the other reporters as Tony finally finds his phone. "Let me ask you again, Mister Stark. Is your company more important to you than your family?"

Tony decks him.

" _Tony!"_ Pepper shrieks in concert with the throbbing of his knuckles and the entire press corps erupting into shouting, gasping, horrified mayhem.

"Shut your _goddamn mouth,_ " he pants at Kenmore, sprawled on the floor at his feet, one hand cupping his jaw, his beady little eyes defiant.

"Tony," Pepper barks and grabs hold of his arm, yanking him back behind the lectern.

"Pepper—" he starts, raising his voice, but she just squeezes and looks up at him from beneath her brows and says, "Go. Go to the car now. Call Steve and find out what's happened."

The reminder of what came before drains the fury out of him in a rush, leaving him weak-kneed.

"Go," Pepper urges, more gently.

"Thanks, Pep," he rasps and she sighs.

"Thank me when this is all over." Then she turns and raises one hand, calling over the uproar, "QUIET; EVERYONE PLEASE CALM DOWN."

Tony slips out the side door, heart in his throat.

~ Chapter Twelve ~

"Aw, no," Johnny Storm says when Steve tells the Fantastic Four Peter's been feeling under the weather. "That sucks! I was gonna take him..." He trails off suddenly when he catches Steve's eye and finishes lamely, "Uhhh, to the skate park. I was gonna take him to the skate park. That's too bad."

Steve has to utilize his military training to keep from rolling his eyes. He knows Johnny takes Peter out to the outskirts of town sometimes so the pair of them can experiment with his powers. People have told him Storm could be his twin, but Steve doesn't see it. "I really should have given you guys a heads up sooner, but it's been kind of a crazy week."

"That nutbar Loki with the frogs in the park Thursday," Ben says, waving one enormous orange finger, "I passed through when your guys were cleaning up."

"We heard about Australia, too," Susan adds, eyes soft and sympathetic. "It's awful."

"If Tony hadn't appointed him in the first place, this could have been prevented," Richards mutters and Susan hisses, " _Reed!_ "

He glances up from whatever he's been working on, blinking, and seems to realize who he's talking to. Steve appreciates that Tony only ever ignores people that completely on purpose. A faint flush creeps across Richards' cheekbones. "Ah. Sorry, Steve," he mumbles. "That was a stupid thing to say."

Steve waves a hand before he can start trying to make apologies he doesn't mean. He doesn't _like_ to hear Richards criticize Tony, but Tony does antagonize him every chance he gets, so he can't really blame him either. The two of them _really_ don't get along.

"Right," Richards says, pulling his glasses off to clean them unnecessarily. "Well, barring an interstellar invasion or the like, it shouldn't be a problem for us to take point while Peter is ill."

"And if you need anything at all, you just let us know," Susan says. "We're happy to help."

"Have you spoken to Xavier?"

"Not yet," Steve says. "I planned to after school let out."

Richards nods and Steve can already see him drifting away again. "Good. That should be fine then."

"Thank you," Steve says, sincere as he can be. "I hate to put you out."

Ben rolls his eyes. "Don't be stupid. We're not gonna let the city get destroyed on account of your kid having the flu. Besides, you've saved our asses more than a few times in the past."

Steve smiles wryly. "You're not wrong."

Ben huffs, his mouth curling in a grin and Steve allows them to shepherd him into the elevator, saying, "Well, thanks fellas, Susan; I really appreciate—"

AC/DC starts wailing in his pocket at full volume and all five of them flinch.

"Sorry!" Steve half-yells over it, hastily pulling his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He answers because he doesn't remember leaving the volume up that high and Tony is a dogged son of a bitch. "You know I hate it when you do that," he says in lieu of a greeting.

" _Steve!"_ Tony barks and the tone of his voice makes Steve tense. " _Peter's in the hospital!?"_

He experiences a moment of frozen abject horror before his head starts working again and he says, "Bruce. Bruce or Betty—"

" _Way ahead of you,"_ Tony says, voice taut, then: " _Goddammit, pick up, Banner!"_

" _Hey, Steve,"_ Bruce says when he does at last, but it's absently said. He may not actually be aware he did so, probably just agreed to take the call when JARVIS asked.

" _Hey! Get your head out of whatever science cloud you've shoved it up and tell us what the hell is going on with Peter!"_

"Why didn't you call me?" Steve demands and Bruce says, bewildered, " _Tony? Nothing's wrong with P—"_

"Then why the hell is he in the hospital?!"

"I don't understand why you wouldn't _call,"_ Steve says. "Where is he?"

" _i don't know what you're_ talking _about,"_ Bruce replies, frustration leaking out in his voice.

" _I thought you said he was_ fine _!"_ Tony yells.

"Was it another seizure?" Steve asks with dawning horror and hears Tony make a strangled noise.

" _No!"_ Bruce shouts, " _I'm telling you he was—"_

Abruptly his voice goes quiet and muffled, though Steve can still hear the way it's growing increasingly distraught as he continues to speak to someone at the other end.

_"Bruce!"_ Tony barks, angry and afraid in equal measures, " _Come on, what is going_ on _with you!"_

And then the line clears again and Steve hears a female voice, distant: "— _take care of it, You're all right_ ," and closer: " _I realize you two are under a lot of stress right now, but I swear to God, I will not hesitate to drug you and drag your bodies into the bathtub to practice vivisection, do you understand me?_ " It's Betty, and she sounds like a bag full of wet cats. Tony manages to get out one syllable before she snaps, " _Shut. Up. JARVIS says that Peter is_ fine _, but I am on my way_ this instant _, to see for myself. What the hell is wrong with both of you that you think we wouldn't let you know the moment that changes?_ "

Steve doesn't say anything, guilt curling low and heavy in his belly. Tony says, " _I— I just— Shit. I'm sorry. There was this_ reporter _and—"_

_"A_ reporter?" Betty says and it's crystal clear the level of stupidity she thinks Tony is displaying right now.

Tony seems to realize it, too, because he goes conspicuously quiet.

" _All right,"_ Betty says. " _I am looking at Peter right now and his condition appears unchanged. Peter, speak to your fathers, but go slowly and use four-letter words because they are displaying the mental aptitude of_ earthworms."

There's a long pause and then Peter says, "... _so what did you guys do to piss off Aunt Betty?"_

Shame burns the back of Steve's neck. "We...may have overreacted."

" _Slightly,"_ Tony puts in, grudging and deeply, deeply mortified. " _Very slightly._ "

" _Well, way to go. Her face was like, fuchsia. I think you guys are in the dog house."_

Steve grimaces and says, "But...you feel okay?"

" _Is_ that _what this is about? No wonder she's pissed. Come on, really, Dads?"_  
  
" _Shut up,"_ Tony says. " _It's bad enough getting lectured by her. We don't need to hear it from a pukey teenager."_

_"You guys would be the first to know if something happened. You_ know _that. Grow up. And, yes, I'm fine. I mean, I'm still achy and tired and this rash is like being covered in mosquito bites, but, yeah, I'm fine. Chill out."_

Steve sighs. "You're right, and we'll try our best. I'll be home in a little over a half an hour. We love you."

" _Yeah, love you, buddy."_

"Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. Better prep some really good apologies, that's all I'm saying."

He hangs up and Steve realizes he's still standing in the elevator, which has arrived at the lobby God only knows when, Reed standing half in and half out, holding the doors, and they're all trying very hard to pretend like they weren't listening. " _Well, that was a clusterfuck_ ," Tony sighs in his ear.

"Hang on, Tony," Steve says and presses the phone to his chest. "I'm sorry," he says to the others. "I'm very sorry."

"Is everything okay?" Sue asks.

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, everything's fine. There was just...a failure to communicate."

"Good movie," Johnny says.

"Y'didn't upset Banner, didja?" Ben asks giving him a leery look.

Steve grimaces. "We did, but I think Betty's managed to calm him down."

"That girl is a downright saint," Ben says.

"No," Steve says, "she just loves him, that's all." He glances around at them and says, "Anyway, thanks again, guys, and I'm sorry for my rudeness. I'll keep you posted, all right?"

"That sounds just fine," Sue says and leans up on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. "Give Peter our best."

"See ya later, Cap, it was good to see you," Johnny adds, reaching to pump his hand enthusiastically.

"Don't forget to call Xavier," Richards says and Steve nods dutifully before finally prying himself away. He waits until he's stepped out the front doors to lift the phone back to his ear.

"Tony?"

" _Yeah, hey, hi, I'm still here. You finally get away from the Failtastic Four?"_

"Tony," he admonishes and slows warily as he approaches the curb where a black limo has just pulled up directly in his path. It stops and the door swings open.

Peering out at him from inside with a very peeved expression is Nick Fury.

"Captain," he calls. "Get in."

Steve doesn't see Happy anywhere and Fury looks like he might chase him down if he tries to make a break for it, so he does as he's told and climbs into the limo.

"Is that your pain in the ass of a husband?" Fury asks when the door's closed behind him.  
  
" _Is that_ Fury?" Tony echoes incredulously, " _Where the hell did he come from?"_

"Yes," Steve says, in reply to them both. Nick smiles a dangerous, mirthless smile and taps the seat between them.

"Put him on speaker phone."

_"Don't do it, don't do it, Steve—"_ but he does, setting the phone on the seat as indicated as Tony sighs gustily in resignation.

"Mister Stark," Fury says brightly, "why don't you tell your beloved here what you just did in front of God and everybody?"

Steve frowns, glancing up at Fury. "Tony? What's going on?"

Tony says, _"Okay, look, that jerk Kenmore was here."_

Kenmore. Steve's jaw clenches. Kenmore has been a thorn in the side of the Avengers for over a decade, acting more like the most invasive kind of paparazzi than a professional news reporter. At one press conference when Peter was ten, the man had badgered Peter to the brink of tears battering him with questions about whether or not he ever felt responsible for the people his dads couldn't help because they were "stuck" caring for him.  
  
He's not popular, even amongst the other reporters, but apparently he gets valuable material despite skating the razor's edge of morality because he's still staffed.

"What did he want?" Steve asks.

" _Apparently he wanted to get socked in the mouth_ ," Tony mutters and Fury presses, "Tell him what you _did,_ Stark."

_"I punched him, all right?"_ Tony bursts. " _He was implying I don't care about Peter and I punched him in his goddamn face."_

A smile breaks across Steve's face, which he knows instantly is the wrong reaction and he reaches up to cover it with his hand. "Tony," he says and he's trying to sound disapproving, but he's not sure he succeeds.

Tony confirms his failure. Steve can hear the grin in his voice when he says, " _You like that, don't you? You're happy I hit him. You're probably sorry I didn't hit him harder. I almost broke my hand, I'll have you know. I split the skin in two places!"_

Fury makes a disbelieving noise. "Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing? _Captain._ "

Steve shrugs. "He's been asking for it for years, sir. You should be happy it was Tony and not me. At least people expect outrageous from Tony. I've sure thought about giving it to him myself before."

The sheer amount of _why in God's name, me_ in Fury's responding sigh is impressive, Steve thinks.

" _Steve hates bullies, remember, Fury,"_ Tony puts in helpfully. Fury glares at the cellphone.

"Well, _that_ bully is part of the United States Press Corps, and if they don't try to throw your ass in jail, you will be very lucky indeed, Stark. We do not fight _civilians_ at _press conferences._ "

" _He started it."_

"Tony," Steve says, "Don't punch anyone else."

" _Ah, yeah, okay, shouldn't be a problem because_ ow _, seriously, I think I might have broken something. Kenmore's head is made of rock, maybe, I think."_

He hisses and Steve adds, "Get JARVIS to do a scan."

" _Ow, god, yeah, what the hell, I think the adrenaline must have worn off. God_ damn _that smarts."_ Then there's a rustling noise and Tony says something Steve can't quite make out before returning. " _All right, Pep's done cleaning up the mess as best she can for now, I should go."_

"I love you," Steve says, ignoring Fury's eye roll.

" _Love you, too. You swear you'll call me the second anything changes? Swear, Steve."_

"Dammit, I fucking swear," Steve replies gravely and smiles at the small huff of laughter he earns from Tony.

" _All right,"_ Tony says. " _Reprimand noted, Fury. I will restrain myself from any further punching of asshole reporters, no matter how deserving they may be."_

"That's all I ask," Fury drawls.

Steve taps the call screen closed and tucks the phone back into his jacket pocket. Fury eyeballs him, taking the measure of him and eventually says, softer, "How's he doing anyway?"

Steve sighs and worries his fingers over the hem of his jacket cuffs. "Sick as a dog," he admits. "He's got a temperature, been throwing up. Had a seizure the other night." The smile that breaks across his face is humorless, strained. "I dunno, he's got Bruce and Betty looking after him, so he'll be all right. It's just the flu and a spider bite. He's a tough kid."

"He is that," Fury says, but he looks worried just the same and it makes Steve's gut curl. "If they need any help, you just let me know."

Steve nods and swallows. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Can't have anything happening to him, distracting my varsity team." Fury pats Steve's knee roughly and the car rolls to a stop. He makes a shooing motion. "All right, git."  
  
Huffing, Steve nods again. "Yes, sir." He turns and pushes the door of the car open and immediately, he's blinded by flashbulbs going off.

"CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN, HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE INCIDENT AT THE PRESS CONFERENCE IN AUSTRALIA?"

"DO YOU CONDONE WHAT YOUR HUSBAND DID TO KENMORE?"

"IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO WHAT KENMORE WAS SAYING, IS PETER ILL? HOW BADLY?"

"WILL WHAT'S HAPPENED AFFECT YOUR ABILITY TO PROTECT THE CITY OF NEW YORK, AS YOU'VE SWORN TO DO?"

It's a mob of chaos, people shouting at him from every direction and the flashes of cameras going off every few seconds. Steve tries to shield his eyes and starts toward the doors of the Tower, pressing through the crowd by virtue of his sheer bulk. He tries to calmly answer questions as he goes. "Yes, Peter is feeling under the weather. The Fantastic Four are aware of the situation and have agreed to step up, should it become necessary. Peter is _fine_ , we just don't want to expose other kids to whatever bug he's caught."

"WHAT WILL YOU DO IF CHARGES ARE BROUGHT AGAINST YOUR HUSBAND?"

"IS THERE ANY TRUTH TO WHAT KENMORE SAYS? DO YOU FEEL RESENTFUL BECAUSE HE'S LEFT YOU BEHIND, ALONE, WITH YOUR SICK CHILD?"

"Absolutely not!" Steve barks and stops dead because he can't let that slide. "Peter is not a burden we pass back and forth. He's our son and we take care of him out of love, not out of obligation. There are other families in Australia suffering because they've endured devastating losses. I can only imagine the kind of pain they're going through. Tony is exactly where he should be and anyone who thinks differently is kidding themselves. Now if you'll _excuse me_ , I'd like to get back in to see my son."

The shouting crescendos around him, but Steve sets his jaw and forges his way through the rest of the crowd, slipping through the doors and into the quiet of the lobby. He lets out a breath as they close behind him, sealing out the last of the mad roaring of the press. He's not sorry Tony punched Kenmore, not a bit, if the questions he was hearing were anything to go by. He sends Tony a quick text that reads, _Should have punched him harder._

"Oh, sir, Captain," he hears and looks up to see the receptionist striding towards him. "You got a package," she says and holds out a small brown paper wrapped parcel.

"Thank you," he says, tucking it under his arm.

He's just a few feet from the elevator when JARVIS says, in an unusually urgent tone, "Captain Rogers, you are needed on the fourteenth floor, immediately."

Before he's even finished speaking, Steve's phone has started to ring; it's Bruce.

Cold starts to spread from his gut outward.

" _Steve? Where are you?"_ Bruce demands, the instant he's answered the call.

"I'm getting on the elevator now. What—"

" _I've got something you need to see."_

~ Chapter Thirteen ~

 

Tony hisses at the sting of the alcohol on his knuckles, but Pepper resists his attempts to pull away and just gives him a stern look. "Suck it up, Mister Stark, unless you really want to show solidarity with Peter by getting your own infection."

He glares at her, but he's too worried for it to have any real heat. Also, she isn't entirely wrong. He doesn't need to add to the pile of problems he has stacking up right now.

Well, add any more.

He focuses instead on his phone, sitting innocuously on his knee between his fingers, frustratingly blank. He's torn on whether he wants it to ring or not because obviously he doesn't want Peter to get worse, but it would be kind of nice to have an excuse to go home.

Normally he loves visiting Australia, but not when Peter's sick at home and he's here because people are dead—people he should have been able to protect, even if it wasn't in his armor—and all he can think about right now is how much fun he and Steve and Peter had had when they came here last summer for the factory opening and snorkeled on the Great Barrier Reef and climbed the bridge in Sydney Harbor. He has pictures of Peter feeding kangaroos and holding a koala and tripping on his ass when a giant spider crawled out of a hole in the ground on a hike into the bush. That had been terrifying when it happened, but hilarious when it was over and no one had died at the mandibles of killer Australian wildlife.

And now another spider _has_ bitten Peter—and, seriously what is it with the kid and spiders?

Whatever, not important. The important thing is that Tony isn't feeling the love for the Southern Continent this time and he wants to go home.

Pepper finishes his knuckles, bandaging them and giving his fingers a squeeze. He glances at her and smiles, then goes back to staring at his phone.

"Sorry about the..." he waves and she sighs.

"I know you are, Tony, and, though I still maintain it was a stupid response, I don't blame you. He was baiting you and, frankly, it's his own damn fault he got what he deserved."

Tony grunts, vaguely amused. "You think he'll learn?"

"After a decade? No. That hope died long ago. At this point, I just hope that eventually someone over him will realize he is an idiot and reassign him to a more deserving post. Like the cooking section."

Tony chuckles, a little surprised he's capable of that, and Pepper pats his knee and smiles at him. It fades after a moment and she nods at his phone. "How is he?"

Tony clears his throat. "He's, uh, not in the hospital."

She rolls her eyes. "I sort of assumed that wasn't true, given that Steve hadn't called you," she says, just a hint of dry sarcasm, and Tony flushes because, as always, she's far more rational and put together than he is.

She nudges his knee and says, "Is he doing any better, though?"

Tony shrugs, looking out the window, but not really seeing the city as they drive by. "Not really. But, hey, stable is better than—" His phone rings then, the old-fashioned bell ringer that's reserved for Steve and Tony's throat closes off abruptly.

He stares at the vibrating device as it travels over his knee but doesn't—can't—move until it starts to slide off and he lunges to catch it before it hits the carpet.

He fumbles it, his fingers not responding as he wants to flip it over and turn it around and, oh God, it hasn't even been ten minutes, has it? What the hell is— His fingers finally work enough to get the phone oriented and he stabs one numb digit at the answer button. "Steve?"

He can hear Pepper saying something, but it isn't until she leans close and squeezes his shoulder that he turns and is able to hear her.

"Breathe, Tony. Breathe."

He gulps and chokes, but forces his lungs to slow down their panting pace, deeper breaths shuddering in and out of his lungs. "What's wrong?" he asks, and only then realizes that Steve is already talking.

"—radiation, Tony, they found radiation in Peter's blood what does that even _mean_?"

A wave of cold prickles over Tony's skin.  
  
Radiation, does that mean—  
  
"He came into contact with Bruce's...no, that's. That's impossible. He can't've. Bruce is too goddamn careful."

"That's what Betty's trying to tell him," Steve says and he sounds beat. "That can't be where it came from. Like you said, Bruce is too careful."

"He wouldn't even hold Peter when he was a baby!" Tony practically yells.  
  
"That's what I said," Steve sighs. "But they can't figure out how else he might have picked it up, he's been in the Tower for the last week."  
  
Tony waves his hands at Pepper until she produces his bag and he digs out one of the tablets, setting it on his knees. He taps the surface and spreads his fingers, which prompts a holographic display. "JARVIS, get me the data," he orders and then to Steve says, "You said traces? Traces of radiation right? That's not— Traces are okay, there are traces everywhere. Is it even gamma?"

"No, that's why Betty thinks it can't have been Bruce. It's not gamma and it's acting strange."  
  
Acting—  
  
"I want to talk to him," Tony says.  
  
"You can't," Steve says, "he's... He had to step away."

"Well, shit," Tony says and scrubs his free hand over his face. "Peter's still... Peter's still fine though, right? I mean, aside from the fact that he's apparently very slightly radioactive—"  
  
"Yes, aside from that, he seems the same," Steve replies dryly.  
  
"Tony," Pepper says, touching his knee with the end of her stylus, "we're almost there."  
  
"Shit," Tony says again. "Steve, I have to go."  
  
"You have to go?" Steve repeats and Tony's heart twists roughly behind the arc reactor, because that's the voice Tony only ever hears when Steve is depending on him, when he's given up his sense of control and put something in Tony's hands. He _hates_ disappointing that voice.  
  
"Meet and greet with the families," Tony says, begging him to understand. "I'll call you as soon as it's over. You can still text me. Pepper will have my phone and she'll relay if anything—" His throat closes off around the possibilities.  
  
"Okay," Steve says, heavy and reluctant.

They're quiet for a beat, neither one of them wanting to end the call. Then Pepper says, "Tony..."  
  
He growls, frustrated, but not at her and Steve says quietly, "No, you have to go, Tony."  
  
Tony grunts because he doesn't want to agree and knows he has to. "All right," he grits finally. "Call me."  
  
And then he hangs up before Steve can reply. He drops the phone, not making it easy for Pepper to catch it, because he's an asshole and there's no other way to get out his frustration. Then he straightens his tie and buttons his jacket and slides his sunglasses into place.  
  
Pepper gives him a once-over. "Get rid of the glasses once we're past the press, you need to let the family members see your eyes."  
  
"Windows to the soul?" he mutters sullenly and she gives him a look.  
  
"No, you have natural doe eyes. It will make them less inclined to punch you in the mouth."  
  
"Right. Great," he says and then takes a deep breath and steps out of the car.

~

Peter pokes at the little rectangle in the bottom corner of his bedside display that's labeled _Radiation Levels_ and it expands into a full-sized window scaled to the exact size and shape of his room. The whole thing is a nice, bland, blue-gray color, except for a boy-shaped blob where the bed is that fades from green to yellow in the center of each limb. He looks up at Uncle Bruce and quirks an eyebrow. "Does this mean my superhero name is going to be The Human X-Ray?" He's struggling to contain his excitement; this has gotta mean that it's working, he's getting powers.

Bruce's grave expression doesn't so much as twitch. "This is serious, Peter," he says, his arms crossed tight over his chest. "Radiation is no joke." His voice vibrates with intensity and a smarter person than Peter would be slinking away right now.

Peter's never been that smart. "But it's not gamma," he says.

"No," Bruce replies, "and thank God for that, but that doesn't make it any less worrisome—"

"And you said it's under safe levels."

"Yes, but we still don't know _where it came from_."

Well, obviously, since he hasn't told them.

Dad touches Bruce's shoulder and he closes his eyes, taking a slow, unsteady breath. "Peter." Dad doesn't say anything else, but Peter grimaces and lays back in the pillows, sighing.

He flicks his fingers over the display, bringing up more detailed readings. "The radiation is concentrated in my bones?"

Bruce takes another breath before he looks up again and sinks onto the edge of the bed. He edges the readings over to the right side of the screen and zooms in on the colored diagram with deft movements. "Yes." He circles the slightly oranger core of Peter's femur with a gesture. "When you look at the more detailed chart, you can see that the highest concentration is in the center of your bones, which suggests that this radiation is highest in the marrow."

Peter tilts his head. Doctor S is going to flip his lid over this data. "That doesn't make sense. If I was exposed to radiation the concentration should be evenly distributed through my body."

Bruce nods and twists his fingers together. "That's exactly what worries me. What we're looking at isn't typical behavior for radioactive material. It's almost like the radiation is coming _from_ your bones."

"Like my _skeleton_ is radioactive? But that's impossible. Right?" Peter frowns, trying to remember all of the stuff from his textbooks. It's hard to focus with his head still pounding. He taps open a browser to do a search of the Tower's digital library and remembers when he can't quite read the letters he's typing that he's not wearing his glasses. He rubs his forehead and turns to look for them on the bedside table. They're not there. "Hey, Dad," he says absently, squinting at the display, "be a pal and find my glasses, will you?"

A second later they poke him in the shoulder while he's leaning forward trying to will the letters into clarity. He takes them, glancing away and up when his fingers don't close around them the first time and catching sight of his Dad's displeased expression. A wave of guilt laps at his sternum.

"Please and thank you?" he mumbles, too little too late, slipping the glasses onto his nose and dropping his eyes to the bedspread. He hunches his shoulders when Steve doesn't say anything. "Sorry." He can see the screen clearly now and he flicks a few things around just to have something to do with his hands. The rush of shame is making his head pound harder. "What are you doing here anyway? Don't you have press stuff or something?"

"Well, see, my kid is sick and it seemed more important for me to be there for him, instead of out doing the dancing monkey routine," he replies, drawling and dry as dust.

Oh, God, guilt mongering has seriously got to be in his superpower repertoire.

"Oh," he manages to mumble and avoids looking anywhere near Uncle Bruce. He's relieved when JARVIS speaks up.

"Sir, Miss Stacy is requesting permission to visit."

"Permission granted!" Peter blurts, starting to paw at his head. "Uncle Bruce, how bad is my hair?"

Bruce starts to open his mouth, but it's his dad who says, "Now hang on a minute, Peter, I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"What? Why not?"

"You're sick, Peter, we shouldn't expose her to whatever you've got."

"Oh, come on," Peter says, and he can hear the whine in his voice, but he doesn't care. He feels lousy and Gwen is here and he wants to see her! "She was already exposed on Monday!"

Dad concedes that reluctantly.

"Please?" Peter asks, tilting his head and jutting out his bottom lip for effect. He thinks about adding a pathetic-sounding cough, but figures that'll just make him seem more contagious.

Steve wrinkles his nose, but he can't quite stop a smile from curling the corners of his mouth. He cuts his gaze over to Bruce. "What do you think?"

Bruce shrugs slowly, arms still wrapped around himself. "I don't see why not if we limit contact." Then, thoughtful, "If she _did_ get sick, that might give us more to work with."

Steve blinks at him and Bruce's mouth twitches.

  
"Kidding. I'm only kidding. A second case would be helpful though."

"All right," Steve says, "She can stay a half an hour. No touching."

"A half an hour!" Peter starts to complain, but his dad gives him a look that says he's two wrong words from taking even that away and Peter bites his tongue.

"JARVIS, send her up," Steve directs. Bruce nudges Peter's shoulder, urging him back into the pillows.

"You obviously feel a little better, but you still need the rest. Take it easy, okay?"

Peter sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I've been in bed for, like, a week, isn't that taking it easy enough?"

Steve points a finger at him and says, sharp, "If you don't keep that attitude in check, I'll have JARVIS take Gwen back to the lobby. Sick or not, you don't get to talk to your uncle that way."

"Okay, sorry!" Peter says and puts a pillow over his head to shut himself up. God, maybe if they weren't all being so _annoying._

He stays under there for a good minute before it gets too boring. When he pokes his head back out, Bruce and his dad are in the lab with Aunt Betty, their heads all bent toward a holoscreen. Gwen steps into the doorway just beyond them and Peter shoves himself upright, ignoring the wave of exhaustion that rolls over him, his heart kicking sluggishly into gear. He runs the fingers of both his hands through his hair in a hurry and clears his throat, trying to settle back against the pillows in a cool sort of way.

In the lab, his dad straightens up and then turns, pointing. Peter swallows when Gwen's gaze meets his, fingers fluttering in a pathetic excuse for a wave. Gwen thanks his dad and smiles at Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betty, answering questions he can't hear. When she gets to the door, Steve turns back, and as it slides open Peter hears him say, "Oh, and Gwen? Hands off this visit, okay?"

Gwen's face turns red and Peter yells, horrified, " _DAD!_ "

He just gives him a Look and Peter flops back, groaning.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry," he moans.

Gwen carefully closes the door behind her and says, "Um, don't they know it's already way too late for me if you're contagious?"

"That's what I said!"

"It's sweet of them to worry though," she adds. Peter huffs.

Gwen stops a few feet from the end of the bed and looks around the room, her amusement fading . She squeezes the stack of books in her arms a little tighter and bites her lip. "So you're getting worse, huh?"

Peter blinks at her and then his mouth drops open. "I forgot to tell you! I'm radioactive now! And I had one minor seizure, but it was just a febrile thing—"

" _A seizure?_ Peter, oh my god!" Gwen exclaims. "But—are you—you're okay though, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Peter says, waving off her concern, though it kindles warmth somewhere low in his belly. "It was just the fever."

Gwen relaxes slightly, sinking into one of the chairs by the bedside and setting the books down in the one next to her. "Wait," she says as she unwinds her scarf, "Did you say _radioactive?_ "

"Yeah, come check this out," Peter says, waving her forward. "It's pretty cool actually."

Gwen gives him a disbelieving look. "Being radioactive is cool? Being radioactive almost ruined your uncle's life."

" _Barely_ radioactive," Peter corrects her. "And it's not gamma, so no chance of that. Come look!"

Gwen scoots the chair right up to the bed and the two of them look up at a sharp crack of knuckles on the glass. Steve gives them a stern look from the other side.

"We're not touching!" Peter yells. He just gets another warning look in return.

"Serious business," Gwen murmurs.

"Serious pain in my butt," Peter mutters. " _Anyway._ "

He pulls up the holoscreen with his bioinformation and shows Gwen how the radiation is concentrated in his bones. When he zooms in to show her how it's highest right in the marrow, she frowns and reaches up to slide the model over a little. "What's this?" she asks as his hand comes into view. "Why is this spot concentrated? What is that?" Gwen asks and reaches for his hand before remembering the No Touching rule and pulling back, glancing to see if Steve saw. Fortunately he's busy with whatever Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betty are discussing.

"A spider bite," Peter tells her absently. "'s why I got that rash."

Gwen stares at him, her mouth fallen open slightly. "A radioactive spider bite? Peter—"

He glances over at her, suddenly catching on. Oh, crap. "No. That's impossible. Gwen. That's crazy. There's no way it was the spider."

"The spiders we saw on the field trip—"

"Were _fake_ ," he says and laughs, wincing internally at how shrill it is, and shakes his head. "It's a coincidence, it has to be."

Gwen bites at her fingernail.

"C'mon, Gwen," he wheedles. "Think about it. They keep those things under lock and key. We aren't even allowed to see them as _interns_. There's no way that's what caused this. It was probably some experiment Dad was working on in the living room. He probably contaminated the milk, okay?"

Gwen huffs and cracks a smile. "Right," she says, "okay." Her eyes drop to her lap and he closes the display, breathing out in relief. After a moment she says, "I heard about Australia. I'm sorry."

Peter grabs one of his pillows and rolls onto his side to face her, sighing. "Yeah, me too."

She leans forward. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Peter smiles and nods, watching her hair fall down over her forehead.

"I'm kinda glad he's not here," she whispers and Peter laughs.

"You're growing on him, I promise."

"I hope so, otherwise—"

The door opens, startling her into silence and Steve leans in. "Time's up, kids."

"Aw, Dad," Peter complains.  
  
"We had a deal," Steve reminds him. "You need your rest."

"It's okay, Peter," Gwen says. "I should be getting home anyway or my dad will start calling his buddies." She pats the stack of books. "These are the assignments you've been missing. Mister Richter says you better be studying because as soon as you get back you have to take the test you missed." She bites her tongue at him.

"Of course he does. Thanks, Gwen."

"Feel better," she orders. When she stands, something falls through the gap at the back of the chair. "Oh," she says, looking up at Steve, "I'm sorry, I didn't even see that—"

He smiles and stoops to pick up the little brown package. "That wasn't a very good place for it anyhow. Thank you for bringing Peter's work over."

Gwen blushes a little, her hands tightening around the ends of her scarf. "No problem, Steve."

"Be careful on your way home," he advises and Peter calls, " _I'll text you!_ " after her. Gwen grins and waves.

"Who's the package from?" Peter asks when she's out of sight. Steve looks down at it and turns it over in his hands, a small frown developing.

"Doesn't say. It's addressed to Stark-Rogers. Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Can you scan this for me?"

"Of course, sir."

A vee of blue light appears, tracing the dimensions of the package. After a moment, JARVIS says, "The package appears to be harmless, sir. There are no traces of any known toxins and no properties which suggest it may contain an explosive device."

Steve nods. "Thank you." Then he looks at Peter and smiles. "Shall we?"

"Yeah, open it up!" Peter says, leaning forward to get a better look.

Steve huffs a laugh and musses up his hair before sliding his fingers under the flaps and pulling the tape free. The brown paper comes away easily, leaving behind a small black wooden case. Steve runs his fingers over the surface curiously. "No latch," he says and pushes the lid open.

He frowns when he sees the contents. "What the..."

"What is it? Dad, let me see!" Peter says, and then he's distracted as something falls from beneath the box. "Hey, what's that? I think there's a note, Dad, get it."

He pushes his glasses up his nose, taking the box from Steve while he leans down to retrieve the note. The little black box is lined with foam and sitting inside is a syringe with a sickly yellow liquid in the barrel and a five milliliter vial of what looks like more of the same.

Abruptly, Peter realizes what it is.

He looks up and Steve has the sheet of paper unfolded. His forehead's wrinkled about as badly as it is.

"Dad—"

"This is addressed to you."

Peter swallows. "Oh?" he says. Maybe it doesn't say as much as he thinks it does. Maybe if he plays it off—

Steve looks up. "Is this true?"

"I don't—"

His dad's expression hardens. "Don't lie to me, Peter. You took something." He reaches for Peter's arm, gripping his wrist tight and holding it up, the maroon spots from the spider bites stark on the back of his hand.

Peter stares back at him and clenches his jaw because his lip is starting to tremble. "I had to."

"You—"

Peter expects him to be angry. When his dad lets out a shaky breath and jerks his hand away from Peter's wrist to cover his mouth, he doesn't know what to do with that. Steve looks like he's going to throw up.

Peter curls his hands around the box. "I have to take it, Dad."

"Give me the box."

"What? But Dad—"

" _Peter!_ "

He bites back another protest and closes it, holding it out for Steve to take. He accepts it, careful, and folds the paper on top. He leaves without another word and Peter's heart sinks.

~

 

Steve makes sure the door to Peter's room closes fully and then digs out his phone to assemble the others. Bruce looks up from his work when his phone lights up, alarm blaring. He frowns and swivels around on his stool. "Steve?" He pushes up his glasses the moment his eyes land on Steve's face, his back straightening. "What is it? What's wrong?" Without waiting for an answer he turns to look through the glass at Peter.

"Look at this," Steve says, setting the box and the note that came with it down on the table next to Bruce.

Oh God.

His legs feel like rubber. He sits.

Bruce gives him a worried look and picks up the note, unfolds it.

" _Peter,"_ he reads in a murmur, " _I have enclosed a syringe containing the Phase II dosage of the..."_ Bruce's voice slows, stiffens, " _super soldier serum. I expected you back sooner, so I presume Phase I has gone the difficult route. As you know, in test subjects, it has taken approximately eight days to run its course when the serum struggles to take._

"The end of Phase I is usually signaled by a seizure, followed by a six to eight hour period of improvement, typically after twelve to fourteen hours of sleep. You have approximately forty-eight hours from that first seizure to administer the Phase II serum. More than three seizures and brain death will begin to occur as the necessary alterations of cell structure will not have been triggered.

"I have provided the exact necessary dosage in the enclosed syringe, and an additional 5ml vial. I hope that Phase II will not be as difficult as I fear.

"Regards, K. Scabel.

"Oh my god," Bruce says and sets the paper down, hands moving to cover his mouth. "Oh god," he repeats, muffled.

Steve swallows and a jagged lump sticks in his throat. "You believe it."

"How could I not?" Bruce demands. "There are details—"

The door to the lab opens and Thor steps inside. He takes one look at their faces and his expression darkens. "What has happened?"

Bruce pushes to his feet, shouting, "Betty!"

Steve waves Thor in. "We'll explain when everyone's here."

Betty scrambles in, slipping past Thor. "What, what is it Bruce? Just breathe, honey, whatever it is we can—" She pulls back in confusion when Bruce reaches for her with both hands, pressing the vial into her palms.

"We need to test this now, a full break down. I need to know what's in it."

Betty peers between her hands at the tiny vial, her forehead twisted in bewilderment. "Bruce?"

"Now, Betty, please."

She gives him one last look and then hurries off.

"JARVIS, anything she needs, please," Steve says.

"Of course, sir."

In the corner of the lab, a vent clatters to the floor and Bruce jumps, snaps, "Goddammit, Clint, what have I told you about doing that?"

"Sorry, Doc, emergency," Clint replies, swinging down to the floor. Natasha drops down after him a moment later. Her eyes immediately find Peter in the adjacent room.

"What's the news?" she asks.

Steve must look as shaken as he feels, because Thor puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "Brother, whatever troubles you, we are here. Tell us how we may be of assistance."

Steve nods and breathes, and scrubs a hand over his face. He waves to the note next to Bruce's workstation. "This package came today. I thought...I thought it was for me or Tony, it was addressed to Stark-Rogers. But..." He shakes his head. "This was inside." He catches the box between his fingers, gingerly pulling it into his lap and turns it so that when he opens it, the contents are displayed to the others.

"Kinky," Clint says and Natasha elbows him in the ribs.

"It came with a note," Steve tells them. "For Peter."

Any humor in Clint's expression vanishes and he goes still. Thor's hand tightens on Steve's shoulder.

"Give it here," Natasha says, reaching for the note. Bruce hands it over and then returns to worrying the end of one arm of his glasses between his teeth.

Steve goes on: "It's from someone called Scabel. Kane Scabel?" He's not sure if that's right.

Natasha nods confirmation, the color bleeding out of her lips as she presses them tighter and tighter together, her eyes working their way down the page.

Clint gets a fistful of his own hair. "Oh no. You've gotta be kidding me."

"That's the name," Natasha says, and looks up, catching Steve's eye. "This is accurate, isn't it."

Steve nods. "I don't know what to do," he admits. "This's more than I know how to handle."

"Jesus," Clint says, "Tony's going to lose his _shit."_

Natasha cuts him a sharp look. "Do you know this name?"

Clint heaves an enormous sigh and crosses his arms, leaning back against one of the lab tables. "Yeah, I know the name. Technically I'm not supposed to—"

"'Technically I'm not supposed to' is your middle name, Clint," Steve says. "Out with it."

The corner of Clint's mouth turns up in a wry little hook. "He used to work here. For Tony. Research in the medical department or something, I think. Some shit went down, and Tony fired him. Breach of ethical conduct or something, I don't know, like I said, technically I'm not supposed to know. Everybody involved signed a gag order."

"Tony signed a gag order?" Bruce says dubiously and Clint nods.

"Yeah, I know. He had to though. It was one of those all or nothing things. Anyway, whatever it was, Tony was furious. I've only ever seen him that pissed a few times." Natasha hands over the note and Clint skims it, his expression darkening with every word. When he finishes he passes it on to Thor, his eyes slipping to Peter's room. "So are you gonna..."

Steve shakes his head. "I don't know. I have to talk to Tony and then..." He waves his hands helplessly.

"You want us to do anything?"

Steve fiddles with a hangnail on his left thumb. "I don't know, if..."

"I can speak with Heimdall," Thor says and there's a growl in his voice that Steve hears echoed outside the building, low and grumbling. "See what he knows of this treachery."

Steve nods. "Okay. Yeah, do that, Thor. And Clint, you said you know of this guy. You think you can get us some more information? Maybe find out where he is?"

"You feeling cooperative, J?" Clint asks.

"I am always cooperative," JARVIS replies, primly. "I cannot be legally bound, regardless. What I know, you know."

Clint smiles fondly. "'Atta boy."

"Natasha..."  
  
She glances over at Bruce and says, "I've been helping Doctor Banner get his work out there. He's going to be busy here in the lab with Peter, I suspect, but I can speak to his colleagues, put feelers out and see what we can learn about this so-called 'serum'." She pauses. "The son of a bitch won't get away with this, Steve."

"It's...it's worse than that. This note—it suggests Peter sought this out. He said, ' _I had to'."_ Steve feels sick again. "We didn't—and now—

"One thing at a time, Steve,"Bruce says.

He nods.

He has a call to make.

~ Chapter Fourteen ~

 

Tony jerks awake, gasping like he's dying. He twists, trying to get his face away from something that's obstructing his breathing, his heart kicking up a notch when he gets stuck halfway, the sheets wrapped around his legs. Kicking frantically isn't the most effective method of getting them off, but he can barely breathe, let alone think clearly. When he finally wrenches free, he flings himself upright, groping blindly at the opposite side of the bed.

Nothing but wrinkled sheets under his fingers.

He makes a high, keening sound, searching with the other hand and there's still nothing, no one in the bed beside him.

" _Steve?_ " He fumbles at the bedside table, knocking the alarm clock to the floor with a crash, cold sweeping up the back of his neck. He's two seconds away from a total fucking meltdown when his phone lights up on the floor. He sees Steve's picture and it all comes rushing back—hotel, he's in Australia with Pepper, Jesus _Christ._

He lets himself whimper because he's alone and slides off the bed, grabbing his phone and pressing himself into the corner between the bed and the bedside table. His hands are shaking, so it takes a second for him to hit the right command, but he manages at last and he closes his eyes and lifts the phone to his ear. "Steve?" he blurts out, and then drops his head to his knees and covers it with his free arm, humiliation burning away the chill of fear he'd woken with.

" _Tony?_ " Steve says, concern laced into his voice, " _Are you okay?"_

"Yeah," he croaks, "yeah, I'm fine. I just—god, I think the phone woke me, I told you I've been sleeping like shit. I must have been having a nightmare, I don't remember anything like that, but that's the only thing that explains how _freaked out_ I was. God. God, Steve, say something, okay, will you, I just need to hear your voice—I woke up and you weren't there and—"

" _Tony, Tony, I'm here, okay? You're okay. You're awake now."_

Tony nods and keeps nodding, pulling in a shaky breath. _God_ , he hates these.

Steve's voice warms and he says, " _Do you remember Two Boots?_ "

Tony's laugh is slightly congested. "Of course I remember Two Boots. I texted you and told you to meet me for dinner—"

" _And you assumed I'd meet you uptown—"_

"And _you_ assumed I'd meet you downtown."

" _Because you never specified!"_ Steve protests and Tony laughs again. " _And both of us sat alone in the restaurant on opposite ends of Manhattan for three hours thinking we'd been stood up and not calling each other because we didn't want to be overbearing—"_

"I wasn't worried about being overbearing, I thought maybe you forgot..."

" _And you didn't call to find out. For three hours, Tony,"_ Steve says, amused. " _But you brought me food."_

"And you brought me food. I thought I'd bust a gut laughing."

" _I felt so stupid."_

Tony smiles into the space between his knees. "You weren't the only one." God, that seems like ages ago and just yesterday all at once. They'd barely been dating three weeks. The next morning they'd sat in the kitchen eating their leftovers and playing footsy under the table while Clint bitched about how _normal_ people could only get food from their favorite restaurants when said restaurants were _open._

They hadn't even had _sex_ at that point, let alone Peter and—

Tony jerks upright, nearly braining himself on the corner of the bedside table. "Steve, it's five o'clock in the morning."

" _I know_ ," Steve says, suddenly hesitant. Tony's heart, so recently buoyed by the same voice, takes a sharp dive.

"Steve."

" _He's okay right now, Tony. There's just...something's come up."_

Tony's grip on the phone actually makes it creak in his hand.

" _Do you remember Kane Scabel?"_

Tony frowns, thrown off by the non-sequitur. "Of course I remember that asshole. He tried to ruin my pretty new 'hero' image. How do _you_ know that name?"

" _We got a package from him today,"_ Steve says. " _Well, Peter got a package._ "

"A package," Tony echoes. "He sent us a package? What the hell was in it? A letter of apology, I hope."

" _Not exactly,"_ Steve mutters. " _It contained a box with a syringe and a vial inside. And a note."_

Tony's stomach does a slow-motion barrel roll.

" _From the sound of the note, he and Peter have been working together. Scabel...he created some kind of super soldier serum. I asked Peter about it and he said, 'I had to'. The note...the note says if we don't give Peter what's in the syringe in the next thirty hours, he's going to—he's going to—"_

The sound of Tony's breathing suddenly seems very loud in his ears.

Scabel had been responsible for the only incident in over fifteen _years_ when the room Peter is now staying in had ever been used for it's radiation containing purposes, insisting that irradiation combined with his "serum" would be able to replicate or at least create a similar effect to the Erskine serum. But he'd displayed a serious lack of reverence for life in his notes and Tony had turned him down flat, ordering him to get back to the work he'd been hired for. _Life-saving_ work.

Instead he'd brought in a goddamn rabbit from _home_ and gone ahead with the experiment.

Tony remembers the raw-skinned, steroid-injected look of the dying rabbit, eugh, and shudders.

And now, now Steve's telling him that that madman, that sick _freak_ has dosed their kid, their _baby,_ with a fresh version of that horror.

A sharp rap on the door snaps him out of it and he hears Pepper call, " _Tony? Tony, I'm coming in."_

"Pepper," he breathes. "Pepper—"

The door opens, a bar of light cutting across the room and Tony winces, starts struggling to pull himself up out of the corner. "Tony?"

He's on his knees, one fist clenched in the bedspread when Pepper comes into view and his heart clenches in his chest. "Oh, God, Pepper."

"Tony? What's happened? Is it— Oh God." Her hand covers her mouth. "Peter?"

Tony claws his way to his feet and moves onto the bed, holding out his arms. "Pep," he says, voice wobbling, "Pepper, no. He's okay," he whispers, repeats it twice more, a mantra against the possibilities he can't get out of his head. "He's going to be fine."

She returns the embrace, clinging to him, and says, "Okay. Good. That's good." She sounds like she's going to cry, though, probably already is actually. "Oh, Tony." And then she sniffs and pulls back and says, "Is that Steve?"

Tony pulls his hand from her back, brings it forward and stares at the phone in his hand. "Steve…" His head snaps up, his eyes wide. "Steve!" He presses the heel of his palm into his eye and then puts the phone to his ear. "Hi. Sorry. I'm so sorry. Pep's here and— Wait," he turns back. "Why are you here?"

"I… I heard a— a crash." Her hand presses to her chest, like she has to keep her heart in there by force. "I thought… You have nightmares and this week has been…"

"Hell," he says, pulling her into his lap. "It's been hell, yeah."

"Steve," she reminds him again, tilting her head toward the phone.

"Dammit. Steve?"

" _I'm here. Are you all right?"_

Tony's answering laugh is raw and humorless.

" _Tony, I know you...you have a duty to do, but—come home. Please. I can't do this without you. I don't—I can't. Please, Tony."_

Tony snorts. "You bet your ass I'm coming home."

"Tony, no," Pepper says, lifting her head from his shoulder. "You can't go back, not right away. The funeral's in—" She checks her wrist only to find her watch absent and turns to look at the alarm clock. It's on the floor, but they can just read the numbers from this angle. "—five hours. You can't leave without attending the funeral. I'll put in an itinerary and you can leave the minute it's over, but you can't leave before the funeral, Tony. I'm sorry, you can't."

He hears Steve swallow on the other end of the line. His voice comes out rough: " _She's right, Tony. Not before the funeral."_

Pepper squeezes him tight and breathes, "I'm so sorry, Tony." Then she sniffles and pats his shoulder and wiggles her way free of his arms. "I'll give you two some time to talk and start getting the arrangements made."

Tony nods, too numb to argue. Pepper closes the door behind her when she leaves and he looks around helplessly at the mess he's made of the bed for a moment before grabbing one of the pillows and crawling to the headboard so he can sit against it, the pillow held against his body in lieu of Pepper. He rubs at burning eyes and says, "Ah, you said he's doing all right though? Peter?"

Steve laughs, but it's a miserable sound. " _He's trying to study, but he keeps looking over here_."

"He did this on purpose," Tony says, the full meaning of what Steve's been telling him finally sinking in. "He sought Scabel out. Jesus, he probably thought his history at SI validated him—that goddamn gag order means nobody knows why he really left."

" _He wants to take this—this Phase II dosage. I don't know that we have a choice. The note says not giving it to him will kill him."_

"You talked to him about it?"

" _Not much. I thought we should do it together._ "

Tony nods even though he knows Steve can't see him. "Okay. I'm...I'm gonna throw on some clothes and try to dig up my _dad's-got-this_ face. I'll call you back in fifteen." He hangs up and drops the phone on the bed, taking a second to put his head in his hands. After a minute, he scrubs them over his face and hair and then looks up, sucking in a deep breath because that's probably the kind of shit Bruce would tell him to do.

A blade of crimson light has started to creep across the floor.

~

 

Tony goes to the funeral.

He wears black, all black, the whole shebang, with Pepper at his side, her face covered in a veil, hair tucked up under the hat. Her mouth is set in a grim line and he hates it because he knows she's twisting shit around in her head, like she's the one who attacked his kid and blew up a factory in east Australia, which is bullshit.

She should know by now that she's the only reason he can get through stuff like this. Mid-way through one of the moms is up at the podium crying her eyes out and talking about how much her baby loved engineering and how he was getting his degree from the University of Central Queensland and Tony's throat closes up because Peter could wind up like that sorry-sack goddamn rabbit and they might never even find _out_ what he wants to major in—

Beside him Pepper opens her parasol. It drops down until he can't even see the woman who's speaking anymore and he hears a snap. Pepper reaches over and presses a tiny ice pack into his hands. "Breathe, Tony," she murmurs. "Steve texted me two minutes ago and Peter is still _fine._ " He gasps and nods acknowledgement and presses the rapidly cooling pack to his face.

The rest passes in a blur, his chest tight like someone's twisting the arc reactor casing. It's hard to breathe and hard to think. Peter did this to _himself_. They must have gone wrong somewhere if he doesn't think he's good enough exactly the way he is. It makes him sick to think of Peter feeling as inadequate as he has all these years.

Tony doesn't even realize the funeral's ended until Pepper taps his knee, dragging him back from across the ocean. "Come on," she says. "The car's waiting for you."

Tony's heart starts to flutter in his throat and he gets up to follow her, accepting his phone back just in time for it to go off in his hand.

He answers with, "Hey, it's finally over thank God, Pepper's taking me to the car and—"

Steve all but shouts, " _Tony, he's having another seizure!"_

Tony only vaguely hears everything after "another seizure", and he doesn't realize his phone has slipped out of his hand until Pepper catches it and puts it to her own ear. "Steve?" she says. "What's—" She gasps. "Oh no." Tony forces his neck to turn and look at her, but can't get his mouth to form the words to ask what Steve is saying. If he doesn't hear them, he can pretend— No, that's bullshit. He needs to know what's happening in order to be able to do something.

He holds out his hand and Pepper's eyes flick over him, measuring. He lets his look harden into a glare and snaps his fingers imperiously.

"Okay, Steve— Steve! Tony wants his phone back, I'm going to pass you ov— Okay. No, I can— I can handle this here. Of course. Don't be ridiculous, Steve, no one expects that of either of you. I'll see him onto the plane myself. Okay. Keep me appraised?" she says, and that isn't an order, it's a plea, the softer core of her peeking through her tough shell. "I'll talk to you soon. Give Peter my love. Okay. Bye, Steve."

She passes the phone back and Tony has it to his ear in a heartbeat. "Steve?" he says, croaks, really, and he tries to work some moisture into his mouth while Steve goes on.

" _You're on your way?_ "

"Yeah, getting in the car now." He wipes a hand over his face, stopping over his mouth. "God, Steve, he's okay, right? I mean, besides the obvious—"

" _I don't know, Tony_ ," Steve says and it's killing Tony to be so far away, to not be there with his family right now. He thinks briefly of taking the suit, of going home on his own, but he's not sure he should be in charge of getting himself there right now, the way he feels.

" _I'm on the floor now_ ," Steve says and Tony can hear the faintest shush of doors sliding apart as he exits the elevator. He can picture Steve stalking down the hallway, a man on a mission, and he's just grateful Steve hasn't hung up yet. His heart starts to pound harder as he visualizes Steve moving into and then across the lab into the secondary lab attached to Peter's room. He can't _stand_ it, god, he can't, what the hell is going _on—_ "Steve," he prompts; pleads, really, who the hell is he kidding?

Then he hears Steve let out a soft, heaving breath, his voice unsteady when he says, " _Oh, God, Tony, I don't— Bruce?_ " His voice breaks, plaintive, and Tony shifts forward, clutching at the short hairs on the back of his head.

"Steve, please, Jesus, tell me what the hell is happening."

After a torturous moment in which Tony can make out the tenor of Bruce's voice but not the words, Steve says, " _Peter... Peter's still seizing. Bruce says he might for up to fifteen minutes. The...the activity is happening in the entire left hemisphere of his brain. Bruce has JARVIS—_ " Then Steve cuts off with a strangled little noise and Bruce barks something in the background. Tony shoots upright, fingers digging into the leather of the seat.

"Steve! _"_ Tony waits for a fraction of a second, fingers hurting under the force he's exerting, and then he yanks the phone back away from his head and shouts, "Goddammit, JARVIS, get me video feeds _now—"_

Pepper lays a hand on his arm and he jerks away from her, his chest heaving. It feels like he's going to break apart, like his heart is going to burst in his chest and he can't breathe—he's having another goddamn panic attack. Shit, shit, shit, he hasn't had this many since the year after the Battle of Manhattan.

"Tony, breathe!" Pepper barks.

"Peter," he bleats back at her, scrabbling at his tie because it's choking him. This is his worst nightmare, worse even than kidnapping, then some psycho getting his hands on Peter, because this, he can't fight this, he can't fight Peter's own _body._

"Tony!"

He yelps as a tumbler full of ice cascades right down the front of his shirt, stomach shrinking back away from the bite of it, and he scrambles to get his shirt untucked. That just dumps the rapidly melting cubes into his lap.

"What the hell, Pepper!"

"Calm. Down," she orders, giving him a narrow-lipped glare.

Icy water is dripping onto the fly of his pants and he shudders, shouting, "Okay, okay, Jesus! I'm calm! I'm calm!"

"We're at the airport," Pepper informs him pointing and he can, in fact, see the airfield just outside the window. "I've filed a flight plan and they're ready to go the minute you're on board. Seizures are bad, Tony, but they are not a death sentence. You need to breathe slowly and _get your butt in gear._ You are Tony Stark. Practically the entire world owes you a favor. Cash them in. Get Peter the help he needs and get him better. You cannot do that if you are panicking and frozen. Do you understand?"

Tony swallows hard and goes over everything she's said in his head again. "Okay," he says at last, because she's right. He can do this.   
"Good," Pepper says. "Now go home and kiss your husband and hug your son. Everything will be okay."

Tony reaches for the door handle, pausing when he's laid his hand over it. "Pepper—"

"I know," she says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. "Go."

~ Chapter Fifteen ~

 

Just before he reaches the plane, Peter stops seizing.

Eight minutes and fifty-eight seconds this time. The last one was only three and twenty-nine.

Tony does all right controlling his anxiety until the airplane door seals shut behind him and he realizes this is where he's going to be for the next twelve hours. He's an eternity away from home and Peter is going through God-only-knows what. The stewardess murmurs, "Can I get you anyth—" and he cuts her off.

"Scotch. Bring the bottle," he orders, and Steve says sharply in his ear, " _Tony_."

"Twelve goddamn hours, Steve," he retorts. His heart is fluttering like a nervous butterfly. Steve doesn't say anything else and Tony wishes the triumph didn't feel so sour. "JARVIS, get me those video feeds," he says and taps the table top with unsteady fingers. He can't be there physically for Peter, but that sure as hell doesn't mean there's nothing he can do. A holographic monitor springs up in front of him, and at the front of the plane a screen descends against the wall. "Equipment readings here in front of me, video feed on the screen."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies and before he's finished speaking all of Tony's orders have been carried out. The video is from a camera in the ceiling just above the door of Peter's room so he's looking straight at the bed where Peter's curled up into Steve's side. He looks awful and Tony can't tell if it's because he hasn't seen him in the last fifty hours, if he just didn't _notice_ , or if it's because he's that much worse than he was. God, he hopes it's not that.

"How's he doing?" he asks as he flicks his fingers over the table display, taking in Peter's vitals. His heart's steady and normal, breathing's normal, and the EEG tracking his brainwaves looks normal, as far as Tony can tell, but he's not exactly a neurologist. His temperature's crept back up to a hundred and two and that makes Tony start gnawing at the corner of his thumbnail. People aren't meant to sustain that kind of body temperature.

The stewardess finally brings the bottle of scotch and Tony snatches it and the glass she brought out of her hand and pours two fingers, sloshing some of it on the table.

" _He's okay_ ," Steve says, quiet, and Tony glances up at the video to see Steve stroke Peter's unruly hair back from his forehead with infinitely gentle fingers. " _He's hot and drowsy. A little confused. I think he's aching again. I guess the period of improvement is over._ " Tony feels his lower lip tremble and he pours the shots down his throat. It's been awhile since he had a drink and his eyes prickle at the stripe of heat it paints down his sternum. God, not enough, it's not enough. He just wants to get _blitzed._ He pours another two and has the glass raised to his mouth when he hears:

" _Dad? Izzat Dad?_ " Peter mumbles, shifting on the screen and Steve catches him around the shoulders, keeping him pressed against his side. He doesn't resist, just sags against Steve's chest and lets his head loll to the side. " _Dad?_ "

Tony starts to reply, "Yeah, buddy, I'm here," but his heart seems to have gotten caught in his throat and it takes a second for him to swallow down the obstruction and croak the words.

" _Dad? Dad, where is he?_ "

Steve holds Peter tighter and kisses the top of his head. " _He's on the phone Peter, he's on his way home_."

" _Oh_ ," Peter says and he sounds disappointed. It's insane how much a little thing like that hurts. Tony slings back the next two shots.

" _Shh_ ," Steve murmurs and strokes the nape of Peter's neck with his thumb. " _He's coming as fast as he can_."

"I'm sorry, Peter," Tony says, and, dammit, his voice is thick, the words sticking to the inside of his throat. "I want to be there, I really, _really_ do."

"' _s okay, Dad, jus', you have to let me take it,_ " Peter mumbles and Tony hunches forward over the table and takes in a wet, hitching breath, one hand clamped tight over his mouth. " _P'ease."_

When he gets control of himself, he lifts his head and sniffs once, rubbing at his brow. The alcohol is starting to do its work, softening the panic and the anxiety, distancing him from his body just enough. He breathes and scrubs his hands over his face and clears his throat, says, "J, get Bruce. I want to know everything."

~

 

Peter falls asleep not long after Tony's plane takes off. Tony himself is still talking a thousand miles an hour from the speakers in the ceiling, but Steve's had the volume turned down so he has to work to understand the individual words to keep it from bothering Peter.

Steve considers getting up to go loom over Bruce's shoulder while he works, but decides he'll be more of a hindrance than a help and right now just being close to Peter is the best thing for his nerves.

Peter being as sick as he was growing up has been his greatest fear since he and Tony decided that yes, they did want to have a child. He was a sick kid and that's a part of him, something that makes him who he is, but it was a hard road and he just wants Peter to be _healthy_. It's such a blessing to be healthy and maybe Peter takes it for granted, but Steve likes it that way. Maybe that's where he went wrong.

Through the glass he can see Bruce and Betty both working, Bruce bent over a station with a monitor. He maximizes a window and Tony's face fills the screen.

The alcohol is evidently kicking in because there's a flush across Tony's cheeks and nose and his movements have taken on a loose laziness. Steve doesn't like the surge of resentment he feels.

People assume sometimes that because he's Christian, and Captain America, that he doesn't approve of drinking. Mostly Steve lets them because it seems most people who are bothered by that are people who are drinking to excess anyhow. But the truth is a lot less noble; Steve doesn't like to see Tony drink because it makes him jealous.

He wouldn't mind being able to drown his troubles at the bottom of a bottle once in awhile.

But that's him taking the health Doctor Erskine gave him for granted.

Steve sighs, feeling a little bit the fool; thinking of Doctor Erskine always gets his priorities back in line. He kisses Peter's forehead and then eases out of the bed and slips into the lab to listen.

"There's nothing overtly toxic in it," Bruce is saying. "Aside from the spider venom, I mean. It's a latrotoxin and there's enough of it to cause symptoms, but not nearly enough to kill him."  
  
" _Okay, great,_ " Tony says. " _Fantastic. So we know Scabel isn't deliberately trying to kill Peter, unless the mixture overall is in some way toxic—_ "

"It's highly unlikely," Bruce says. "The make-up is really more like that of a vaccine."

" _A vaccine, huh?_ "

"A vaccine for what?" Steve asks and the three of them look up.

Betty shakes her head. "Humanity, maybe?"

"As much as it pains me to say this, I think we need to take the risk. The only thing we _do_ know right now, is that Scabel's note has been accurate so far and he says that if we don't do this it could cost Peter his life."

" _Yeah,"_ Tony sneers, but his eyes are overbright, " _or he could be trying to force our hand. If we're the ones that do this and it backfires, that's on us."_

"The letter was addressed to Peter, though. Presumably he didn't expect you to read it," Bruce argues.

" _It was addressed to Stark-Rogers_ ," Tony shoots back, " _Maybe he's just a passive-aggressive bastard._ "

"There's nothing we can do," Steve says. "No way to reverse what's been done already? Stop the process mid-way."

Bruce shakes his head. "Not in time. The next seizure could happen at any moment. Every minute we spend talking about this is another minute closer to a deadline we can't see. Look, I'm as unhappy as you are about it. I know how horribly wrong this type of experimentation can go, but we don't have a choice."

"Then do it," Steve says. Tony makes a noise of protest and Steve shakes his head. "This isn't like Extremis, Tony. You don't have a half-formed equation, we don't have _time._ If it's between giving him this shot and watching him die, the choice is clear."

" _At least—at least wait until I get_ home," Tony protests.

"We can't afford to wait," Betty says. "We just can't."

The heartsick look on Tony's face hurts to look at, but it has to be done. Steve squares his jaw and says, "You should talk with him before we do it."

" _He just went to sleep_ ," Tony argues feebly.

Steve sighs and nods. He glances at Bruce and Betty. "Give us a minute?"

Brruce nods and says softly, "I'll get it prepped."

" _This sucks, this fucking sucks,"_ Tony says as Steve slips back into Peter's room.

"Yeah," he agrees. He sits down next to the bed and stares down at his hands, hanging between his knees. He can hear Tony mumbling wobbly curses to himself, the very faint clinking of the bottle against his glass. Everything unraveled so quickly. "I'm sorry, Tony," he breathes. "I'm so sorry."

Tony sniffles and after a pause, he says, " _Come on, don't do that, Steve. This isn't your fault. Nobody could have seen this coming._ "

_But I'm supposed to,_ Steve doesn't say and he looks up at Peter, lays a hand on his arm. "Peter. Hey, Peter, buddy, can you wake up for me?"

"Hmmmdad," Peter moans and his face squinches up in displeasure. "Whazzit?"

"Your dad and I need to talk to you for a second, okay?"

Peter groans and pries his eyes open, squints at Steve. "Okay, 'm awake."

The words get lost somewhere in Steve's throat, his thumb stroking the skin of Peter's arm.

" _We're gonna give you the shot,"_ Tony finally says.

Peter rubs at his eyes and blinks a few times, clearly trying to wake himself up further. "Really?"

" _Don't think for a second this is an endorsement of what you've done,"_ Tony says, jaw trembling. " _This was a hundred percent the wrong thing to do."_

"But you're going to let me take the dosage?"

"We can't risk losing you," Steve says and Tony breathes out a muttered, _"Fuck,"_ covering his face with his hands.

He's getting what he wants, but it makes him feel kind of terrible. "I'm going to be fine, Dad. I checked the science myself—"

" _You're fifteen-goddamn-years-old!"_ Tony snarls. " _And you're brilliant, but you're not_ that _brilliant! How many times have we talked about Bruce and what happened—"_

"This is different—"

" _Everyone thinks they're different, Peter," Tony snaps coldly._

Peter stares sullenly back at him.

"Stop, Tony," Steve says, his whole body sagging. "This isn't the time. Peter went about this the wrong way, but, God willing, there will be time for this talk later. For now..." He leans forward to press a kiss to Peter's head. "We love you."

Tony sighs and it's like Peter can see all of the anger draining out of him. " _Stupid or not, he's right. It's disgusting how much, really, I mean, we're talking potentially unhealthy levels here."_

"I'm not going Oedipal on you dad, gross."

" _Sure aren't, no mommy for you to get some with."_

"Queer representation in literature sucks," Peter says and Steve shakes his head.

"Are you two finished being disturbing?"

Peter glances at the image of his dad on the screen and Tony raises his eyebrows. They both purse their lips at the same time and then, in perfect synchronization: "Yeah, yeah, that's it, we're good."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"Ah, Steve?" He turns to find Bruce poking his head through the door, eyes sliding around the room without settling. "I'm ready when you are."

Steve hears Tony take a swig out of the bottle when he nods and Peter says, "Hey, are you drinking? That means I can have some, right?"

Steve shoots a dirty look at the screen because that's a rule Tony had invented on his own. "No, you cannot."

" _Probably not a good idea, Bambi,_ " Tony says, very carefully avoiding looking at Steve. " _Drug interactions and whatnot."_

Peter huffs. "That's never stopped you before."

" _Hey, mister, I do not drink and do drugs. I haven't done that since like—2012."_

"This should be just like a regular shot," Bruce says, wiping Peter's shoulder with an alcohol swab. "Just a pinch."

Peter swallows and his hand creeps toward Steve's, linking their fingers. He keeps up the stream of inane jokes and Steve holds his breath as Bruce slides the needle in, his stomach sinking as he watches the vile yellow liquid disappear. God, he hopes this wasn't the wrong decision.

"Okay," Bruce says with a wan smile, pressing a wad of gauze over the puncture as he slides the needle free. "That's it."

"Awesome," Peter says. "Can I get a Mr. Fantastic band-aid?"

Tony squawks in indignation.

~

 

Bruce rolls the fine focus knob ever so slightly, bringing the contents of the slide into sharper relief. Tony has a very nice electron microscope, one that every university Bruce knows of would pay dearly to possess, but for some things he prefers a slightly more traditional approach.

Besides, at the moment the EM is processing a whole batch of samples under JARVIS' direction, so it isn't available.

His lips move as he counts each type of cell, his head lifting at the end of each cycle to look at the paper where he's taking notes. Or, well, the StarkPad. Close enough. It even has lines on it and Tony designed a stylus that looks like a ballpoint pen just for him.

And, probably, because it amused him to see other people steal the pen and try to write on regular paper.

Bruce has learned which battles to fight and which ones to let go and it actually is pretty amusing anyway.

He could have written his notes without looking away, but his eyes need the break from the harsh light of the scope and it gives him a chance to glance at the video feed of Tony.

It isn't a reassuring picture, but that's all the more reason to keep doing it. There will come a point—probably in the not too distant future—when Tony's doing himself more harm than Peter good and he'll have to be banished from the work. Bruce doesn't expect that to be easy, but it will be necessary all the same. For now though, while he's on that flight, alone, he needs it.

The chatter that normally runs as soundtrack to their working together in the lab—a lab, any lab—has ground to a halt. Tony is, for his standard values of activity, unnaturally still.

Bruce extends his break and notes Tony's gaze; he can tell it's stuck on the image he has of Peter in the clear-walled observation room at one end of the lab. It can be locked down with negative pressure to make it a quarantine, but things aren't quite that dire, yet.

Thank God, because Bruce does not relish the idea of having to talk Tony into a hazmat suit just to get close to his son.

The bitchfit that would follow about how it's un-fucking-fair that he has to when Steve doesn't and how it's his choice anyway if he wants to expose himself to whatever Peter's giving off, that they share half the same DNA anyway so how bad can it be? might be enough for Bruce to have to excuse himself to keep from ruining their chances of ever figuring out how to counter this.

When Tony starts wilfully ignoring scientific principles in favor of doing whatever the hell he wants, the situation has truly reached critical mass.

Bruce is hoping to avoid that.

The sooner they know what's going on and therefore the sooner they can stop and/or fix it, the easier that will be to avoid.

That in mind, Bruce writes down his numbers and goes back for another look.

Tony's moving again by the time he's finished with the slide, has been for a few minutes, pacing in and out of the frame.

At some point he's picked up a pair of ice tongs and started tapping out a rhythm on his twitching fingers.

He occasionally stops at one of the displays running in his make-shift control center, shuffles about the graphs and charts and resizes them up and down, lips moving but rarely speaking aloud, makes an expression or two of anger, worry, frustration, or all three, glances back at Peter's feed, and begins pacing and tapping again.

Years of practice are all that keep Bruce from shutting him out so he can work in peace. Well, that and the understanding that Tony needs to be doing something—or at least feeling like he is—or he would explode, if not himself, something else.

"Next slide," Bruce says and holds out his hand, the sample he's done with held upright between his third and fourth fingers, the second waiting to pinch the new slide against the third. DUM-E obligingly swings it into place, then takes the old sample away. They're quite practiced at the exchange now, so Bruce can watch Tony the whole time.

Tony somehow feels his stare because he turns and flashes a grin, the quick, automatic kind he usually reserves for media, elected officials, and Fury—when he wants to be especially annoying.

"So what do are we looking at so far?" he says, plopping down into his seat, fingers splaying to enlarge the feed where Bruce is shown, and then... sighing, his shoulders dropping as he wipes a hand over his face.

He's been stressed beyond the norm in the last week and a half and every second of that is written in his posture and his face. How he's been managing to this point is something of a mystery to Bruce.

Not a surprise, he's seen it and worse before, but still a mystery.

His eyes are hooded, his mouth a grim line. He'd look better if he was the one in the quarantine room and he has neither Peter's youth nor his enhanced DNA.

Bruce takes a moment to muster his most reassuring smile. "Peter's in the best possible hands there are. We'll fix this," he says.

Tony tries to smile back, but doesn't quite make it, his lips doing a weird sort of twitch instead.

He gives up quickly, dropping his head onto folded arms and inhaling and exhaling deeply three times.

Then he lifts his head again until he can rest his chin on his forearms and nods with a quick jerk. "What've we got?"

Bruce brings a hand up to scratch at his head, the other tapping his notes and drawing the command to have them assimilated into the rest of the data. When the confirmation flashes, he sends it to the big screen that syncs to one on Tony's plane and minimizes the others already there.

Tony's bloodshot eyes scan the information, taking it in and, Bruce is hoping, seeing something other than what he is.

Tony's brows furrow, though, and he says, "Wait, what?"

Damn.

Tony looks at him and Bruce realizes he's said that aloud. Oops.

"So it's not just me?" Tony says. "This isn't really my area of expertise—" And Bruce can't resist the snort, because 'not my area of expertise' with Tony is more along the lines of 'I've read more about it than most people employed in the field and might as well have a degree, but I just haven't taken the time to actually get the paper diploma'. "—but shouldn't the white cell counts be going _down?_ "

He glances at Bruce again and sits up. "I mean, with the radiation and all..." His words trail off and then he starts gesturing to manipulate the displays and take it all in. Bruce wishes him more success than he's had, but isn't counting on it.

"Well, in typical cases of radiation exposure and poisoning, yes, that would be the case."

Tony flinches at the words "radiation exposure and poisoning" but that is, technically, what they're looking at.

Except it isn't going the way it should.

That's both good and bad news.

"Well this was definitely not a typical case," Tony mutters. "Fucking _Scabel_." His voice goes up in volume as he continues, his hands moving faster and faster as he builds up steam. "Why spiders anyway? Who the hell needs radioactive spiders? Even if this was his end goal, to spread some kind of radioactive venom that increased in the human body, why the hell would you choose spiders? No one voluntarily sits there and lets a spider bite them. Dogs or cats would be much more effective. People will let them do all kinds of shit that would grant exposure. Spiders though, people just kill. Or ignore. But even when they kill it's not by touching them directly, it's with a ten foot pole or a vacuum cleaner or spray. No chance of exposure. Fucking _idiot,"_ he snarls and throws his copy of the display out with a vengeance.

His head drops down again, caught by his upraised hands, fingers tunneling into his already messy hair. He stares at the tabletop, eyes moving back and forth like he's reading something in the surface there.

This is one of the rare times Bruce wishes Tony weren't so goddamned brilliant.

And that he, Bruce, believes in lying to the family of a patient.

It would be nice to say he has some idea of what's going on and that Tony and Steve shouldn't worry, that Peter's going through a rough patch and that it might get worse before it gets better, but that it _will_ get better.

He could actually do that with Steve, whose brain has been enhanced by the serum, true, but who hasn't studied medicine like Bruce and Tony. Besides, Steve still likes to believe that people are being honest, especially people he knows he can trust, and so he'd take that as gospel and nod and relax a little bit because everything was under control.

Tony, though, there's no way to bullshit Tony, short of locking him out of this lab and feeding him false information in another one.

Even then, he'd still probably figure it out and hack into the system and force JARVIS to give him the real data and then he'd stop trusting Bruce and things would get _really_ bad, because you could do a lot of things that Tony would forgive, but lying and manipulation were not among them.

No, a worried Tony working in cooperation is much better than a worried and bitter Tony working in opposition.

Tony shifts the weight of his head to one hand, the fingers of the other digging into his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs, heavily, and says, "Okay, so white blood cells going up, toxins and radiation going up..." He frowns and lifts his head, pressing his fist into his mouth and drumming his fingers on his skull. "He's fighting it, or, well, trying to," he says, blinking and tilting his head to the side further.

Bruce hates to be the voice of reason, but someone has to be. "Fighting what?" he asks. "The radiation? The venom? Both? And how? And, even if he is fighting it, why is it going _up?"_

That's the biggest conundrum. Trying to fight off the foreign substances in his body is perfectly normal. Succeeding, as the raised white cell count implies, is unusual, but Peter's DNA isn't exactly normal to begin with.

But how the _hell_ is the concentration of toxin and level of radiation increasing?

"Virus."

Tony blinks again and sits up straight, turning to look at Bruce. _"Virus,"_ he repeats.

"Uhhh, nooo? It's not a virus, Tony. First of all, that makes even less sense, and second of all, there's nothing like that in his blood."

Bruce would know, having spent hours looking at it under all levels and types of magnification.

"Nonono, not, like—" Tony sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Not like an _actual_ virus, I'm not saying that. But the behavior is viral in nature."

Bruce frowns.

"You said the serum looked like a vaccine. So what if it's got some component that works like a virus? It's... It's using Peter's body to replicate, or, well, manufacture, the point is the same. The extra toxins and radioactive particles aren't coming in from an outside source and they're sure as hell not already there just waiting to be activated, so something must be producing them."

"Like a virus," Bruce says. And it's still crazy, because biology doesn't work that way, but, well, Bruce has seen whole encyclopedias worth of things biology didn't do come to horrifying life since his own experience turning science on its ear.

Tony's expression is as animated as Bruce has seen it in days—in a good way, not in a destructive way—and there's actually something like hope in his eyes.

Small, a spark more than an actual flicker, but there all the same.

Bruce isn't about to let it die now.

"Okay," he says, shifting on his stool to wake his ass up from the numbness that had settled in some time ago. "Like a virus. Using Peter's own cells to somehow produce the venom and make it radioactive." He inhales, holds it, and blows the breath out slowly.

"I don't know if you can keep calling him an idiot," he says almost absently as he starts making notes on his Pad.

Tony frowns and jerks back at that. "What? Why the hell not?"

Bruce gestures with his stylus. "He may very well have birthed an entirely new branch of science here, Tony. He's irresponsible in how he's using it, but this is not the fruit of idiocy."

Tony's lip curls and his eyes narrow and he almost snarls, but he finally concedes, "Okay, fine." He looks over and says, with complete seriousness, "What about fuckwad? Can I call him a fuckwad?"

Bruce has to swallow a snort. "That's not very politically correct—"

"Flopping dickweasel it is." His attention shifts back to the screens and he squints at one, flipping through items.

"JARVIS, did we run any DNA tests?" Tony asks.

Bruce's eyes snap up to Tony's face at that request.

"We have not, sir," JARVIS says, sounding as wary as Bruce feels.

"Do that."

His eyes come down to meet Bruce's. "Let me know as soon as it's done."

"Of course, sir," JARVIS says.

Tony's gaze drops to the tabletop where his fingers are drumming and then rise to look at the observation room feed where Peter sleeps on.

"I need coffee," he says at last and vanishes from view.

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

 

Peter wakes to the sound of voices. Steve's voice in particular is vibrating just beneath his ear and he realizes he's slumped against his dad's chest, curled up in his lap. That's a little embarrassing, but...nice. At least until it starts stoking the nausea in the pit of his stomach. Ugh.

" _...Bruce, dammit, I don't need you to tell me what we_ can't _do, I need you to tell me what we_ can _._ "

"You can stay calm," Bruce replies, terse.

" _I'm calm_ ," Tony says and Peter would laugh if he had the energy because he's very clearly _not_. " _Who says I'm not calm? I'm perfectly calm. Steve's the one losing his head here. I'm cool as a cucumber._ "

"A cucumber on fire, maybe," Steve says and one of his hands moves to Peter's back, his thumb rubbing circles on his shoulder.

Peter snorts. It makes his whole face ache, right to the roots of his hair.

" _Hey_ ," Tony says. " _Was that movement? Is he awake? Peter? Buddy?_ "

It takes Hulk-suppression level effort to pry his eyes open and the fluorescent lights stab straight into his brain. "Yeah, Dad," he says and it feels like he's talking through a throat lined with crumpled paper.

" _Steve, hey, come on_ ," Tony says, " _get me closer so he doesn't have to strain, pull me around_." Peter's human pillow shifts as Dad does as requested. As soon as he's squared, Tony's expression softens and some of the tension eases away. " _How're you feeling, Bambi?_ "

"Shitty," Peter mumbles and feels more than hears the noise of disapproval Steve makes.

"Language."

"'s true," Peter mutters and grimaces as he shifts. God, it's like he went too far sparring with Aunt Natasha, only _his whole body._ This process has been way longer than he was hoping for.

" _You still nauseous?_ " Tony asks.

"Don't remind me," Peter replies. "How long's I asleep?"

Tony shrugs, fingers tapping. "' _Bout twenty minutes_."

"Okay," Peter croaks. "Just a second." And he heaves himself out of Steve's lap, scrabbling for the basin next to the bed as he gags and chokes until it feels like the muscles in his abdomen are going to rip off of his skeleton. When the spasms finally ease, Peter slumps into his dad's grip, arms shaking so hard he can barely hold on to the basin with his sweat-slicked palms. His face is damp with sweat and maybe tears—that's definitely what's clumping his eyelashes together. Somebody, Bruce maybe, takes the bowl away from him, so he can just pant and try to regroup his strength for a minute without the smell getting him started all over again.

"Peter?" Steve says, quiet and almost tentative.

Peter pushes back, sitting instead of hanging in his dad's grip, and aside from the sharp aching in his wrists and his knees—and okay, pretty much everywhere—he feels a heck of a lot better. Weak as a tissue, but better. He pushes back the sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, wipes his mouth, and tries to smile at the three men watching him with varying expressions of concern. "I'm. I'm good," he says and when Tony's face starts to contort he amends, "Better. That helped. Really."

"I told you this was something that was likely going to happen, Tony. Venom, remember? All his vitals are stable and he'll probably feel really unpleasant for awhile. We're keeping a close eye on it."

" _Yeah, awesome, a close eye_ ," Tony mutters. Peter feels bad that his dads are so worried, but he's not sorry he did it.

~

 

Peter's temperature climbs back up to 103 and he starts throwing up so frequently he's dry-heaving and Bruce decides they need to hook him up to an IV to prevent dehydration.

Steve finds it painful to watch him, small, sob-like sounds hiccuping out of him as his body clenches with enough effort to cause him obvious pain. Tony's no better, flinching every time his eyes slip past the window containing the video feed, his eyes glassy. Steve thinks it's probably one of the worst things he's ever endured and he's got a laundry list of things most people would shudder to even think of going through.

He's sitting grimly at Peter's bedside—no longer touching him because Peter complained he was too hot and that the pressure of his hands made him ache—when Peter gags hard enough it wrenches him into the fetal position. Steve leans forward, pressing the basin into the bed as close to him as he can. Peter heaves again and whimpers, clutching at his ribs. Then again and again and again until he's panting into the mattress, tears leaking down both cheeks.

"Dad, please," he moans.

"What do you need?" Steve asks and Peter sniffles, fingers curling around the bedspread.

"It hurts."

Steve moves closer, curling his fingers into fists to keep from reaching for Peter. "We're trying, pal, we are."

~

Tony is striding down the MedBay hall already at twice his usual speed when he hears a scream.  
  
He sprints the rest of the way, slamming through doors, his heart in his throat. "Bruce!" he shouts as he barrels through the last door.  
  
Bruce, Thor, and Betty are all on their feet moving toward the isolation room. Tony shoves his way past them, palms slamming against the glass door hard enough to sting.  
  
Peter lets out a sob-like noise and Tony's chest tightens like a wrung-out rag. he reaches the bed and stops short, not knowing what to do.  
  
Steve is shushing Peter gently, expression pulled taut.  
  
"What is it? What's wrong?" Tony asks and flinches when Peter lets out a choked cry and his back snaps into a rigid line, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets.  
  
"What happened?" Bruce demands in a harried voice.  
  
"Take my hand, Peter, come on," Steve coaxes and with what appears to be Herculean effort, Peter pries his fingers open and clamps them around Steve's, moaning. "I'm going to touch your leg now, all right, pal?"  
  
"No, no, no," Peter begs and grunts, jerking his hand in Steve's as his expression contorts in agony. "It hurts, it hurts."  
  
"I know it does, I just want to see what we're dealing with. I'll be quick."  
  
Peter whimpers, but he nods and Steve reaches one ginger hand to cover the muscle of Peter's calf.  
  
He turns his face into the blankets and screams.  
  
Steve glances up, grim-faced. "Charlie horses. I used to get them as a kid. Never more than one at a time, but it felt the same—rock hard with tension."  
  
"You think he's got _multiple_?" Bruce says and when Peter's shoulders go tense, the skepticism melts out of his expression. "I'll get an IV set up, electrolytes and fluids, maybe that will help."  
  
"Please, dad, please, make it stop, please," Peter begs, voice muffled by the way he's mashed his face into the bed. His voice breaks. "Please."  
  
"What do you need?" Thor asks from behind Tony.  
  
"Heat packs," Steve says. "As many as you can find."  
  
Tony watches helplessly as Steve leans over Peter, assuring him in a low, steady voice while Bruce adds the new things to the IV.  
  
"I know it's hard, but try to breathe, Peter," Steve says, and straightens.  
  
Tony catches him by the wrist. "Give me something to do. There has to be something I can do."  
  
"Come here," Steve says, "up on the bed. Give him something to hold on to."  
  
Peter's curled up on one side of the bed, so after shucking his jacket, it's easy for Tony to scoot onto it next to him.  
  
"Careful where you touch," Steve advises, and then moves away to gather supplies with Thor.  
  
Tony swallows hard and watches Peter's back rise and fall shallowly as he pants, shoulders rigid.  
  
Finally, he makes himself speak. "Hey, Bambi," he says, voice painfully hesitant, "I'm home."  
  
"Dad?" Peter says, his voice high and plaintive. "Make it stop hurting, please, please, Dad."

  
"I am gonna do my damndest, Bambi."  
  
Peter nods and then with an agonized noise, manages to turn himself over, reaching to curl his arm around Tony's waist. "And I thought—I thought one charlie horse was bad," Peter says and laughs shakily.  
  
Tony very gingerly lays a hand on his head, ready to snatch it back if Peter gives any indication he's making things worse.  
  
His breath is hot and damp on Tony's thigh. "I really missed you, Dad," he mumbles.  
  
"I missed you, too, kiddo." He strokes Peter's hair and listens to him whimper and hopes there's something they can do.

~

Steve returns with Thor a few minutes later, laden down with heat packs. He lays them in the chairs beside the bed and says, "Peter, where are you cramping right now?"  
  
"Right leg, lower half, left, top half. M-my right hand." He catches a hitching breath between his shoulder and Tony's thigh, the fingers of his left hand clamping down around Tony's arm. Tony is sitting with Peter sprawled across his legs on his belly. Peter's face is buried against Tony's hip, fingers digging into the bare flesh of Tony's arms.

Steve activates the heat packs with a few quick twists of his wrists and settles them carefully over the parts of Peter's legs where he can see the lump of tightened muscles. Then he sits down next to the bed and reaches for Peter's hand. "The best thing I know for cramps like this is firm, steady pressure. It hurts like hell, but it seems like the quickest way to get the muscle to unwind."

Peter groans. "Just do it, Dad."

Steve nods, steeling himself, and then presses his thumbs into the hard mass of Peter's thumb muscle. Peter jerks and yells, "OW, f—ohmy _god_ , ow ow ow ow." Tears quickly creep into his voice.

Tony doesn't flinch, just bows forward, a ginger hand settling on Peter's back as he murmurs, "I know, buddy, I know," his voice strangled into hoarseness.

Steve firms his lips and keeps working the knot under his fingertips. Peter chokes and tries to bite back more pained sounds, but can't quite smother them unless it's by smothering himself against Tony's side and that only lasts until he has to breathe again.

Steve feels every shuddering breath echo through his own lungs in time with Peter's. He catches Tony's eye, but only briefly, and he couldn't say for sure who broke first.

"That's it," Tony murmurs, hand gently rubbing up and down Peter's back, ruffling and smoothing the cotton of his shirt. "Just keep breathing. Bruce swears by it and if anyone would know if it helps, he would." Tony sucks air in noisily through his nose, then blows it back out slowly through pursed lips. Steve finds himself unconsciously following along, and eventually Peter is able to mostly match them. It's still unsteady and his nose is obviously clogged with snot and tears, so he has to sniff occasionally between breaths, but he's doing his damnedest to keep up.

After a few minutes of this, Steve sets Peter's hand back down on the bed and moves to where he can draw Peter's leg up into his lap. The cramp hasn't completely dissipated, but it's not the only one and maybe he'll have better luck on a bigger muscle. The rhythm of their shared breathing is broken by the hiss of pain and a whimper, and Peter brings his newly freed hand up to cover his eyes, though it still looks stiff with pain. Steve feels like someone has grabbed his heart and given a solid yank as a tear trails down Peter's cheek from under his hand. He sniffs deeply, then tries to find the rhythm of the breaths again.

"In with me," Tony says, and inhales deeply. "Out with me. You're doing great, kiddo."

Steve lightly, but firmly, wraps his fingers around Peter's knee and ankle and slowly pulls on the limb to extend it. "Oh ow! Dad! Stop! That _hurts_ ," Peter pleads, voice cracking. He scrabbles to get a grip on Steve's fingers and tries to pry them loose, but gives up almost immediately, instead shifting his body to follow the leg and curl forward.

"Tony," Steve says, evenly, but at great cost.

"Shit. Okay. Come on, Pete, lay back for me," Tony coaches, hands on Peter's shoulders.

"No," Peter says. "I don't want to. Please. That hurts more. Oh God, just let me— Owowowow!" He jerks and pushes at Tony's hands and is able to escape, lurching forward and wrapping an arm around his thigh to pull it back in.

"Peter, we're trying to— I know, this seems backwards, I told your dad he was full of shit the first time he tried this on me, but I swear it will help. We just have to get the muscle extended so it can relax." But all of Tony's attempts to move Peter are futile and he gives up. He turns his confused gaze on Steve who frowns back. Peter's always been a little more fit than expected for his age, and in the last few years Tony's ability to out-muscle him has begun to wane, but not so much that he can't budge the kid at all. And with his being sick, they should be on a much more level playing field.

"Peter," Steve says, letting off the tug-of-war for a moment and leaning forward. "Hey, Peter, look at me."

It takes a few moments for the tightly closed eyelids to separate enough to show a sliver of red and brown, but Steve waits. In the meantime he rubs Peter's shoulder, small circles over the trembling joint.

"You know I love you, right?"

Peter nods and lifts his head more. "Yeah, of course, Dad. I'm not— I know you aren't trying to hurt me, it's just…"

"I know," Steve says, smiling sadly. He shifts his hand up to the back of Peter's neck and squeezes lightly. "The very last thing I want to do is cause you more pain. But this will help. It hurts a little more at first, but it's over faster. I promise." He lets one corner of his lips curl upward and says in a conspiratorial whisper, "Your dad was a huge baby when I first did this with him." He looks up to see Tony playing along with a suspicious stare. "Let's show him how it's done, what do you say?"

Peter laughs and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I shouldn't let you think this kind of reverse psychology manipulation still works on me, but…" He swallows. "Okay."

Steve squeezes his neck again and presses a kiss to his forehead. "That's the spirit." Leaning back and taking up his holds on Peter's leg again he says, "We can go as slow as you need to."

Peter's fingers are just next to Steve's and white all the way through the knuckle, but he doesn't stop. Even when he grits his teeth, the tears dripping from his cheeks and chin, and throws his head back on a strangled cry, he doesn't stop.

Tony's got one hand on the back of Peter's head, thumb ruffling the hair as it sweeps back and forth and the other on his shoulder, kneading as he steadies Peter's balanced position.

"There we go. Don't forget to breathe, Peter," Tony reminds him, and Peter makes an aborted sound of complaint at that, but obediently purses his lips to blow out his shaking breath. "Good," Tony says. "Good."

When his leg is fully extended, Peter says, "Okay. Now wha— Oh. _Oh_ ," and abruptly relaxes the limb across Steve's lap. "Wow," he says, sounding almost drugged with the relief. It's only one of his many aches, but it's obviously enough to momentarily overshadow the rest. Peter laughs and smiles lazily. "You weren't kidding about— _NGURK_!" He jackknifes up, hand wrapped around his ankle and then the most horrifying _wail_ of pain escapes his throat, a sound so harsh Steve can feel his own throat spasm in sympathy. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he repeats frantically, pitch rising with each repetition. He's also rocking in place and Steve's half afraid he's going to hurt his ankle the way he's squeezing it.

"What is it?" Tony demands and Peter can only make a broken sound as he pants, even his words lost to him.

"Foot cramp?" Steve asks, and Peter's head jerks tightly, sweat beading on his brow and flying free with the movement.

"Here," Steve says, pushing down his own fear at the way it's getting worse with each minute, not better, "let me—" He doesn't do more than brush the skin before Peter's falling backwards onto Tony, back arching and hands retracting like birds' wings. His fingers clutch spasmodically at the air, bent into claws, but he doesn't seem to be reaching for anything specifically, just grasping in reflex as he writhes on the bed.

"What the hell!" Tony snarls in frustration and worry, getting his hands on Peter's biceps to steady him, but unable to really restrain him.

He looks like he's having a seizure, not the quiet zoned out thing of before that Steve found utterly terrifying, but a fresh new horror from the other end of the scale.

"Banner!" Thor bellows, sticking his head out the door and Steve had forgotten he was there, but now he's grateful for it as Tony adjusts his grip and cradles Peter against his chest, speaking softly but urgently to him. Steve is too busy helping hold Peter's legs, supporting Tony by keeping Peter from rolling off the bed as best he can.

Unlike the other seizure, Peter seems to still be with them mentally, but that's little comfort when all he can do is beg and plead with them to stop the pain.

"I'm here, Bambi," Tony says, "I'm right here. I've got you. I've got you."

Peter cries out and thrashes the other way, twisting into a position that cannot be comfortable, but that Peter can't seem to help either.

"Is it your back?" Tony asks. "Peter, is your back hurting you?"

Peter very nearly headbutts Tony in the chin as he nods, still writhing and twisting, but unable to escape the pain even for a moment.

"Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop," he sobs, face red with the exertion, veins in his neck and face standing out in vivid relief. "Dad," Peter pleads. "Dad, _make it stop_."

"We're trying," Tony promises. "We're trying. We called Bruce and he'll figure this out. He's smart like that."

"I appreciate the compliment," Bruce says as he enters just in time to catch the words, going straight for the bed and catching Peter's hand in the air, "and I will do my best. Can you tell me specifically where it hurts, Peter?" He's glancing between the clock and Peter's face, his fingers following the motion of Peter's wrist without losing his grip as he takes a pulse.

"Everywhere," Peter whines. "It just hurts… everywhere." He chokes and gags and Tony curses, but Bruce just turns and grabs one of the kidney-shaped basins and holds it out.

"Here," he says, and Tony grimaces, but gets it into position as Bruce goes back to his examination. He's palpating Peter's arms, feeling all the way up to the shoulder on the left, then down to the wrist on the right. Peter occasionally makes a pained sound as he gags, but he doesn't actually throw anything up.

"Excuse me," Bruce says with a flicker of a smile at Steve, working around him to repeat the series of squeezes up and back down Peter's legs. He steps back when he's done and frowns. "Keep doing what you're doing. I'll be back."

"Hold on," Tony says, stopping Bruce at the door. "Can't you give him anything for the pain?"

Bruce grimaces but shakes his head. He looks at Peter as he says, "I'm sorry. Until we've finished the analysis on whatever was in that injection, I don't want to risk interactions. As bad as this is, I'd hate to make it worse."

Tony pales and Peter obviously can't help the whimper at that and gags again before saying, "Please no. Oh God, no."

For his part, Steve is feeling more than a little nauseated at the idea of it getting worse. Whether that means fatally so or just more agonizing, he doesn't know and he doesn't really want to know. Either way, he agrees that waiting is better for now.

Tony's got his arms wrapped around Peter who has begun to relax from the strained position of before, propped up against Tony's chest as he gasps for breath. What were fine tremors before are now visible trembles that race up and down his body at regular intervals. He still twitches a limb now and again, reflexively drawing it close before forcibly stopping the movement and gritting his teeth with the effort to straighten it back out. The result is that he's laid out on the bed, but he looks like he's being pulled that way by unseen forces.

Steve busies himself rearranging the heat packs that have been knocked askew, accepting a few from Thor that had been tossed to the ground. Tony's keeping up the hug and rocking slightly, kissing Peter's head and talking in a murmur that even Steve can't make out from here. He doubts it's anything really earth-shattering, probably just nonsense, and more for the sound than anything.

Peter's eyes are closed as he breathes in and out, and when that begins to steady and smooth out, it's a noticeable change.

As is the blood leaching back into his hands where they'd been gripping Tony's forearms. Steve feels the tension drain out of himself in a rush when Peter goes totally limp, sucking in wet little gasps. Tony bends over him, sheltering, murmuring, "There you go, that's it, champ. God, you're a tough kid. Something else, you know that? Take after your dad."

"I don't—ever wanna do that again," Peter says in a quavering voice.

Tony's eyes go extra glossy and he squeezes him, pressing a rough kiss into his hair. "Hey, it's all right," he says thickly, "I fix stuff, that's what I do. I can—I can figure something out, I'm sure I can."

Peter takes a shaky, wet breath and nods into Tony's stomach, where he's slid down to, his eyes obviously growing heavy. "Okay."

For the first time since the arrival of the note, Steve feels a little flutter of hope in his chest. That's right, Tony fixed Pepper after the Mandarin dosed her with Extremis. If he could do that after starting when he was drunk and so much younger, surely he can fix whatever's been done to Peter now.

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

 

Peter drops off to sleep, one hand dangling over the rise of Tony's thigh.

"Well, that was equable to the first or second level of hell," Tony mutters and slumps back into the bed. God, he's tired. The adrenaline from the burst of panic when he first arrived is dwindling and as it goes it's sapping his strength.

Steve sighs and rubs his forehead, letting his arms hang into his lap. He looks exhausted and heartsick and Tony's own aching heart twinges for him, but it's a far off feeling.

While Steve gathers himself, Tony surveys Peter's body, forcing himself to make the effort to lift his hand and look at the now white-ringed site of the bite and then skimming up his shirtsleeve to get a look at the reddened spot where the serum went in.

He quickly covers it back up, curling his hand over it like that will make it less real. He swallows thickly.

"So," Steve says, and Tony starts, eyes snapping up. His nose tickles with moisture and he tries to cover up a sniffle with the nonchalant swipe of his hand. Steve doesn't seem to notice. One of his shoulders hitches in a faint shrug. "How are you doing?"

It sounds like a question even more than it should and it's so ridiculous Tony lets out a bark of laughter. "I'm _dandy_ , how're you?"

"I've been better," Steve admits with a wry crook of his mouth. Then he really looks at Tony and his whole face softens, gentles. He stands and leans to kiss Tony, a chaste, cursory peck.

His red-rimmed eyes meet Tony's when he pulls back and an instant later he presses forward for another, desperate this time. Tony's eyes are sliding closed when Bruce clears his throat and says wryly, "There's probably a better place for this, don't you think?"

Tony's hands tighten a little around Peter's arm and back and he drags his mouth away from Steve's. "I was just gonna get up and come into the lab—"

Bruce shakes his head. "No, you both need to go rest. Serious rest. Its been a long forty-eight hours and you can't help him if you're exhausted."

Tony's face sets stubbornly, but Bruce holds up a hand, "it's trite and you don't want to hear it, but it's true, Tony. I need you at the top of your game— _Peter_ needs you at the top of your game and despite what you may tell others I know very well that you are, in fact, human and do, in fact, _not_ work best when you're riding the edge of sleep deprivation."

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve says heatedly and Tony shoots a look at Bruce to say _oh-ho-yeah, I'd like to see you talk him down right now._

Bruce ignores him—rude—and crosses his arms, jaw-firming. "Steve, I _can_ make you go, if I have to."

  
Steve's nostrils flare. "You wouldn't."

Bruce tilts his chin down and looks Steve dead in the eye through the top edge of his glasses. "Wouldn't I?"

A muscle in Steve's jaw ticks, his shoulders tense as a wire in contrast to the easy slope of Bruce's. They stare at one another for a good minute before Steve finally cracks. "Six hours."

Bruce shakes his head. "Ten."

"Ten hours!" Tony protests. "Come on, we're old men, Bruce, we're never gonna sleep ten hours."

"Okay," Bruce concedes, taking his glasses off and tapping one arm against his chin. "Nine."

"That's almost—" Steve starts, but Bruce just tilts his head and says, "Guys, out of the three of us, who is the experienced medical doctor?"

Steve's jaw clamps down, refusing to answer, so it's Tony left to mutter sullenly, "You."

"Thank you. Now I'm not going to ask again."

Tony sighs theatrically because he can't be seen giving in too easily or they'll be on him all the time and he'll never get any work done. He hefts Peter with a grunt, feeling a pang of worry when he barely shifts at the movement, and slides off of the bed, wincing as the knee that was trapped under Peter's body protests. Steve's brow sets into a solid line and he says, "If he wakes up, I want to know."

"Go on," Bruce says, eyebrows on his forehead as he tilts his head toward the door. "Out."

"How come Thor gets to stay?" Tony complains as he and Steve shuffle-hobble out of the isolation room.

"Because I know the lab's going to need a bouncer otherwise you'll be back in here in no time."

"Sleep is overrated," Tony grumbles, but it's really, really not, and the thought of the bed upstairs, cool and smooth against his skin— He bites his lip to keep from groaning.

Bruce closes the lab door behind them with finality and says, "Goodnight, guys."

"Yeah, yeah, night, you neo-Nazi."

Steve turns back, worry lining his features as he peers through the glass to Peter, pale and slack against the stark white sheets of the bed. He stares for a long moment, his hands curled into fists, and Tony reaches for his hand, brushing his fingers over the ridges of Steve's knuckles. Steve's hand opens on reflex and he pulls his eyes away as Tony slots their fingers together. Tony rubs his free hand over one eye and says, "We don't have to sleep. We could...we could go to the bad. The lab. I can pull up a feed and we can—"

Steve sighs and Tony blinks at the feeling of one of Steve's broad hands curving around his neck; he'd closed his eyes without even realizing. "Tony, you look ready to drop," he says quietly. "Have you even sobered up?"

Tony shrugs, rubbing the jersey fabric of Steve's t-shirt between his fingers. "Ah—that's...debatable. It's kinda hard to tell right now, 'cause everything's a little unstable, a little whirly-gig-like, and that could be literal or y'know, alcohol-related, or exhaustion because, god, I'm tired. I'm, like, record-levels of tired, here. I _feel_ like I'm gonna drop." He lets his head fall against Steve's chest and feels it rise and fall in another sigh. Steve's fingers stroke the base of his skull and Tony very nearly zonks out on him right there.

"Been a rough coupla days, huh?" Steve murmurs and Tony snorts. Steve kisses his forehead. "Come on, let's get you upstairs."

They walk to the elevator in silence, where Tony leans back against the rear wall and lets his head fall back against it with a sigh. "What a nightmare," he mutters. His eyes flutter back open a second later when Steve steps into his personal space, hands cupping Tony's jaw. He leans his body into Tony's and that's enough to make his breath catch. Steve all but envelops him and Tony reaches around his waist to pull him closer and make sure he doesn't get away.

Steve kisses him like it's an apology, hands gripping his shoulders tight, and Tony sags a little more into the wall, mouth opening on a groan. Steve licks inside, moving to tug Tony's shirt free of his slacks, and slipping his hands up underneath once that's done. He spreads his fingers out over Tony's ribs. Shivers race over Tony's skin in every direction.

When he arches a little into Steve's hands, he gets pinned even more firmly against the wall, a zing of electricity plummeting straight to his groin.

It's been—Jesus, it's been _weeks_ since the last time and sex hasn't even been so much as a blip on his radar with all this shit with Peter and Australia; it feels unbelievable to have Steve's hands on him again.

Steve moves his mouth to Tony's throat and he sucks in a juddering breath, fingers tightening in the fabric of Steve's shirt. "God, god, _Steve_. I missed you; didn't even _know_ I missed you, which is awful, but— _hha-ah!"_

Steve's tongue slides over his carotid, silk-soft fingers brushing his nipples and Tony's hips jerk. He drops his hands, clenching them around Steve's ass to have something to hold onto and Steve's mouth pulls free of his neck, a groan washing hot, damp air over Tony's collarbones.

"Yeah," Tony says and feels a flush creep across the bridge of his nose as he looks at the pink spread over Steve's. He squeezes again, deliberately this time and Steve moans, his hips rolling. _God_ , he needs this.

All he can reach right now with Steve towering over him the way he is is the base of Steve's throat, but there's more than enough skin there for him to suck on and when he combines that with one hand gliding over Steve's ass from stem to stern, he gets the desired tensing of Steve's whole body, _"Tony_ ," on his lips. "I want to—"

"Yeah," Tony breathes, "yeah, I want it, too."

Steve huffs out a laugh and reaches up to brush the backs of his fingers over the stubble on Tony's jaw with a level of fondness that makes Tony's heart stutter. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

Tony shakes his head and hooks one leg around Steve so he can grind up against him.

Steve's legs nearly buckle.

"Don't care," Tony says breathlessly. "Want it. Whatever it is, I want it."

Steve lets out a shivery moan. "What if I want to stop?"

"You don't," Tony replies, calling his bluff. "You started it." He rolls his hips again and the friction feels _so good._

"Sirs," JARVIS says suddenly, drawling, "Perhaps there is somewhere better suited for what you are about to do?"

Both he and Steve make annoyed noises. "Why are you trying to ruin this moment, J?"

"It's not like we haven't had sex in the elevator before," Steve complains.

Tony's too busy shoving Steve out of the elevator to hear what JARVIS says in reply. Holy hell, it turns him on when Steve says shit like that so casually. Every step is torture because he's hard enough that even his slacks are uncomfortable and he wants so badly to get his hands on Steve and make him just— _lose it._

Steve turns when they've nearly made it to the bedroom door and drags Tony close, kissing him until he sees light sparking behind his eyelids.

"What are you doing, why are we stopping?" Tony breathes and Steve smiles, his eyes dark to the edges and his lips swollen.

"Who's stopping?" he says and stoops in one swift gesture, hauling Tony up and over his shoulder. Tony's stomach drops like a rollercoaster as Steve straightens, eliciting a burst of startled laughter. Steve strokes his ass in a way that makes him jerk, one leg kicking involuntarily.

"No fair!" he yells and swats at Steve's ass in return.

"Don't make me drop you."

"You wouldn't dare."

Which, it turns out, is the wrong thing to say, because they're in the bedroom now and Steve does in fact drop him onto the bed, his stomach swooping again.

"Ass," he says, even as he's sitting up and reaching for Steve.

Steve crawls onto the bed, knees on either side of Tony's legs and he takes one of Tony's outstretched hand, kissing the palm. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he says and Tony grabs for him, pulling him down like a blanket.

"God, you're sappy," he murmurs. After a split-second pause, he adds, "I love you. I love that about you. That and your ass. Your ass is _sublime—_ "

Steve glows, ignoring the attempts to disguise the emotional bits. "I love you, too," he murmurs in return, lips brushing Tony's. He follows the declaration with a proper kiss and then a filthy one, one that makes Tony writhe under him, scrabbling at his clothing.

"Come on, _come on_ , Steve."

Steve helps him peel off his shirt and okay, yeah, there has been a _serious_ _imbalance_ in their lives because Tony's pretty sure he hasn't seen this in, like, an eon. The skin is smooth and perfect, fine blond hairs thickest in the center of his chest—where the arc reactor would go if it were his and not Tony's—and fading outward, to hairless shoulders. Tony presses the palm of one hand over his heart, wiggling his fingers so the hair slips up between them, tickling the vees. He rests it there a second, marveling at the steady, sturdy _badump-badump-badump_ of Steve's heart. He's a feat of engineering. Biological engineering, but engineering, nevertheless. Perfectly formed from head to toe and at least some of that perfection was passed onto Peter.

That thought nearly bowls Tony over with relief. Steve's genes are strong enough in Peter that they keep his blood samples in high security vaults—they won't even let Fury get his hands on them and if that doesn't say something about the power they think is contained there, then what could?

Peter's going to be okay; Steve's genes will make sure of it.

Right now he's going to show Steve just how grateful he is Peter is theirs.

He leans up on one elbow, tugging lightly at the strands between his fingers and Steve leans forward to meet him, tongue sliding over Tony's lower lip.

Knowing that they're actually going to do this, that Steve's on board and he's on board and Peter's passed out downstairs and their schedules are cleared makes Tony's skin prickle with anticipation, his muscles warm and loose with the knowledge that he's going to get that release he's aching for and it's going to be _good_ after the wait.

He reaches for Steve's fly as Steve kisses him and Steve moans, low, into his mouth when he gets his fingers on the zipper and pulls it down. Tony manages to tug the khakis down around Steve's thighs before they refuse to go any further and he whines. "Goddammit."

Steve laughs and leans forward onto his elbows so their faces are lined up next to one another, Steve's nose pressed into his shoulder and their chests just brushing. He uses one hand to shimmy out of the pants, somehow managing to do so without kneeing Tony in the spleen. He reaches for the briefs he's wearing, too, and Tony grabs his wrist.

"No, mine," he says, practically salivating at the sight of the head of Steve peeking out of the slit.

"Tony," he protests, but Tony covers his mouth with a hand.

"My present, I get to unwrap it."

Steve rolls his eyes, but they're crinkled with amusement. Then he reaches for Tony's shirt buttons.

"Me or you?" Tony asks while he works. Steve's eyes flick up from his task. His lips press together reflexively and he doesn't answer right away. A hard choice, Tony knows. He's not sure either.

Steve's brow furrows as he considers. He's finished with the buttons before he says, "You. I want..." He searches for the words, but can't seem to find the right ones. Tony's pretty sure he knows what Steve needs anyway. "Do you mind?"

"Hell no," Tony breathes, ass already clenching in anticipation.

Steve pushes the shirt off of his shoulders and Tony surges up to kiss him. It's messy and a little bit painful when he accidentally drives his lip into Steve's teeth, but he just digs his fingers into Steve's shoulders and kisses him harder. Steve lifts his weight off of Tony long enough to get his slacks undone and then with a few sharp tugs, yanks them free of his body and tosses them to the floor.

"You are unbearably sexy."

Steve smiles, a little devilish and Tony, idiot that he is, doesn't realize why until Steve's hand is wrapped around him and he's arching up off the bedspread, gasping.

Oh, fuck, how had he forgotten how good this feels?

Steve strokes a few times until his brain's spitting sparks and while his body is disappointed when Steve releases him, he's grateful because he's looking forward to getting that present unwrapped. He wiggles until Steve lets him slip out from under him while he turns over onto his back. "It's been awhile," Steve observes and Tony gives him a look.

"You're telling me. I feel like I've forgotten what you look like under all those pristine clothes."

Steve's expression turns earnest and worried. "Do you think I've got wrinkles?"

Tony slaps him across the ribs and Steve's expression cracks, breaks into laughter. "You're an asshole," Tony declares.

"I have one," Steve corrects.  
  
"I regret teaching you to be cheeky."

"You didn't teach me, Tony," Steve says. "It just took you awhile to catch on to it."

Tony pays him no mind, focusing on sliding his fingers under the hems of the legs of Steve's briefs, the way Steve's unblemished skin feels under his fingertips; the soft, stretchy fabric over the backs of his knuckles.  
  
He loves the way Steve shifts restlessly, occasionally breathing in through his open mouth.

"Tony," he says, half plea and half order.

Tony blinks and realizes he's teasing the curls hidden under Steve's briefs, gaze intent on the wet spot growing near the waistband. "Sorry," he says, and means it. "Got caught up. Love watching you come undone."

Steve closes his eyes, his lower lip curling in as he wets it with his tongue and Tony makes a low noise of want.

"Like _that_ , holy cow, are you doing this on purpose? I didn't mean to tease, it's just been forever and I forgot how good you look in bed, honestly— _mmff_."

Steve releases him just enough for their mouths to part and breathes, "If you don't get the underwear _right now_ , I will."

"Okay," Tony breathes back, dipping his head forward to get another kiss and then another, his hands fumbling at the waistband. "Sure, I can—thank you."

Steve drops his ass back down to the bed and Tony flings his underwear off to the side. He clambers into Steve's lap, spreading his legs out over Steve's thighs and planting his heels over his tailbone. When he leans in to kiss him, Steve moans.

"Lube," Tony says, "lube, lube, lube, where's the goddamn lube?"

He nearly yanks the drawer out of the bedside table in his determination, but the bottle of lube comes rattling out of the back and he grabs it with a triumphant, "Aha!"

Steve takes it from him and coats his fingers, before reaching with both hands to cup Tony's ass, gingerly spreading him open. Tony hisses when the light flick of his fingers causes a jolt of arousal so strong it verges on the edge of pain.

"C'mon, c'mon," Tony urges, but it's his turn to wait while Steve teases, his mouth working along Tony's jawline and down the length of his neck.

When he finally slides a finger in, Tony can _feel_ the stretch, the slight burn that tells him it really has been every bit as long as it seems.

"Hey," Steve says, one enormous hand sliding from his ribs to his waist. "Breathe, Tony."

"Right, sure," Tony says and inhales, feeling some of the tension and resistance bleed out of him.

"I won't hurt you," Steve says and Tony rolls his eyes.

"I know you won't, don't be stupid. I just—" His eyes flutter shut, fingers tightening on Steve's skin when he makes a circling gesture. "Wow. Do that a—" He sucks in a breath as Steve obediently does as he's told, a shiver shooting straight up his spine. Steve breathes out a low, needy, moan.

"Hurry up," Tony orders, nudging him with one heel. "You're torturing us both."

Steve nods against his shoulder, flushed and pupils blown, and starts opening Tony up in earnest. He works with a sense of purpose and urgency, but without rushing, using ludicrous amounts of lube and careful movements until he's got two broad fingers inside Tony up to the second knuckle. When Tony's shuddering on every motion, Steve eases him down onto his back and wipes his hand cursorily on the sheets only to reapply lube a second later to coat himself.

"C'mon, Jesus, give it to me already, Steve," Tony moans, grabbing at him fruitlessly. He feels the tip of Steve's dick touch him and he swallows hard, getting one handful of the short hairs at the base of Steve's neck. "Yesssss," he hisses as Steve sinks inside, panting and trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

Tony pulls at his hair and Steve mutters, "Ow, Tony, okay, I get the picture."

Then he lets himself go a little and in one liquid thrust he's buried inside Tony.

The surprise of it, and the sharp, sudden feeling of being _stuffed full_ makes Tony cry out. "Oh, hell," Steve says, his voice breaking just a little, "you feel so good, Tony."

"Just wait," Tony says, and he rolls his hips. The second thrust feels better than the first and the one after that is good enough Tony sees lights on the backs of his eyelids, a moan slipping involuntarily from his chest.

Steve embraces it in the most literal sense of the word, curling himself around Tony, one arm braced protectively over the top of his head, the other his side. He feels utterly surrounded by Steve and years ago it would have annoyed the shit out of him, but now he just clings and lets himself feel safe for five goddamn seconds. "Tony, Tony, Tony," Steve chants with every breathless thrust of his hips.

"Oh, fuck," he cries, the head of his cock catching between their stomachs. Steve recreates the motion again and he moans incoherently.

They start to move more frantically, Tony desperately rolling his body up to try and get the friction he needs and Steve riding close to the edge. Tony takes handfuls of his ass and squeezes, murmuring into the underside of Steve's chin, "Come, Steve, let me see you."

  
His breath stutters and he jerks forward inside Tony, his mouth falling open in a wordless, soundless expression of extraordinary pleasure. His face is totally flooded pink and it's the most gorgeous thing Tony's ever seen.

For a second after the orgasm, he lies on top of Tony, shuddering and hips stuttering forward torturously. Then he picks himself up, kisses Tony squarely on the mouth, and slides down his body, making Tony moan with the loss. Before he's even formed the thought to complain, Steve replaces it with three fingers, and the wet heat of his mouth envelops Tony's prick.

He sucks and strokes at Tony's prostate and in a few short seconds he's throwing his head back, yelling his release, his whole back bowing up off the bed. Steve strokes him through it until it's too much and Tony pushes him off, every muscle in his body twitching.

"Oh, god. Oh my god. Steve. _Shit._ " He laughs, the rush of endorphins making him giddy and Steve's mouth curls in a heavy-lidded smile. Tony's giggles get worse when he turns to the side and notices come oozing down Steve's chin. "You're pretty," he declares and swipes it off with his thumb, which he then wipes clean with his tongue.

Steve's eyes follow the movement, his eyes dark.

Tony grins at him and leans forward to peck his mouth with a kiss. "I am never gonna stop enjoying the fact that you're finally having to deal with _wanting_ to do it again and not being able."

"That's because you're an ass," Steve reminds him.

"You'd be smug, too, if your husband had twice your stamina despite being a hundred goddamn years old. It's about time you learn what it's like to be an old man." Tony flicks him in the ribs. "I'm also going to ignore that extremely rude comment and graciously go get something to clean up with, before this shit solidifies and we have to solder it off."

He rolls out of bed and hisses, hobbling the first few steps.

"Tony?" Steve calls, a note of worry in his voice.

"I'm fine," he calls back. "Just a little sore, no biggie." He wipes his ass in the bathroom because come and slick is sluggishly making it's way down his inner thighs and then takes a second to dab at it with TP just to make sure—no blood, so nothing to worry about. He digs up a washcloth and dampens it with hot water. When he emerges, Steve is sitting up, rubbing one hand in his hair. It's a mess and he's still flushed all the way to the sheet in his lap, a wine-red hickey starting to show over his collarbone. Tony is the luckiest son of a bitch in the universe.

"Tony, are you sure you're all right?" he says, expression anxious.

"I'm fantastic," Tony replies, kneeling on the bed and swiping the cloth over Steve's chin.

"Tony," he protests, trying to pull free.

"Seriously, Steve, I'm fine, I promise. I checked, there's no blood. I'm just sore because it's been almost a month since the last time you reamed my ass."

Steve flushes, shuddering a little as Tony wipes him clean. When he's finished, he drops the washcloth on the floor next to the bed and curls his hand around the back of Steve's neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

Steve sighs and wraps his arms around Tony's waist, almost too tight. Tony clutches right back, tucking his face into Steve's neck. He's asleep before his next breath exits his body.

~ Chapter Seventeen ~

 

The next morning Tony wakes slowly, by increments, and the first thing he really registers is the strong, steady ache in his hips. Actually, his ass is pretty sore, like—oh right. Realization makes him grin and he wriggles a little, enjoying the twinges he feels in various just-got- _laid_ muscle groups. The bed shifts along his side and he reluctantly drags his eyes open.

Steve smiles, one arm curled around the pillow his head is resting on. "Hi."

The window shades slide back, morning light washing all the color from Steve's skin. His voice is low and sleep rough and the sound of it makes something deep inside Tony shiver. "Hi," Tony murmurs, reaching over to flick Steve's nipple, "are you just watching me sleep, you creepy old man?"

Steve rolls his eyes and Tony loves the perfect twenty-two degree angle of his nose. The ten degree quirk of his lips is even better. "You're easier to read when you're asleep."

Tony frowns and glances away. He sits up abruptly. "What time is it?"

"Half-past four," Steve sighs.

Tony groans and flops back down, hissing when his back twinges, sucking the breath out of him. When he gets it back, he breathes, "Bruce isn't gonna let us back in now, is he?"

"I already tried," Steve admits, pressing a hand into Tony's aching back. "Thor knocked me out with the lightning and dragged me back up here."

"He _electrocuted you?_ " Tony demands.

"Tased me, essentially," Steve says and he looks infuriatingly blasé about it. "Only, you know, more powerful."

"Okay, they're getting a little power- _mad_ ," Tony mutters, staring up at the ceiling. He chews his lip. "You know, we could probably get in there if I— JARVIS—"

JARVIS interrupts before he can even get the question out. "Doctor Banner has engaged the safety protocols, sir. Should you attempt to enter the isolation room before 6:03 AM, the room will initiate lock down procedures."

"Completely power-mad, Steve," Tony says, incredulous. "Unbelievable."

"Why do you think I'm still in bed?" Steve says.

Tony makes a mock-scandalized noise. "You're not here because of _me?_ "

Steve nuzzles in to the crook of his neck. "You're the reason I stayed in bed instead of going to try Thor again."

Tony tilts his head back with a grudging hum and allows him more room to press a kiss into his throat. Tony's floating on a cloud of tingling sensation, eyes drifted half-closed again when Steve murmurs into the tender skin below his ear, "How are you doing, really, Tony?"

Well, there go his happy feelings.

"Can we not?" he says, turning away from Steve and his absurdly blue eyes and the sad tilt of of his eyebrows. He presses his hands down over his head and tries to pretend like everything's the way it was thirteen seconds ago. Without Steve breathing against his skin, it's hard.

When he says, "I think we should," it's impossible.

He slips out of bed, evading Steve's hand, and heads for the toilet. "I made it my life's mission to ignore phrases that start that way and you're not going to change me now. You promised in your vows that you wouldn't try to change me."

Of course, evading Steve has never, and likely will never, be that easy.

"I did, but, Tony, you know that's not what I want. We agreed back when we first started dating that the only way this was ever going to work was for us to talk. Because you and I are both far too capable of misinterpreting what's going on with someone else. So… talk to me. Please."

Tony stares at the ceiling while he pisses and hates the crawling sense of guilt on the back of his neck. Steve's just trying to help. He grimaces and flushes the toilet, crossing to the sink to give his hands a cursory wash.

When he steps back into the doorway, Steve is sitting at the end of the bed, pulling on a pair of slacks.

Tony rubs at his forehead. "This isn't... I'm not not talking to you. I talk all the time. I'm talking right now, babbling, so can we just let it drop?"

Steve looks at him, elbows coming to rest on his knees. "I'd like to hear about Australia, Tony."

He snaps. " _Just relax about it, would you?"_

Steve is silent and Tony knows if he hadn't already shown his hand, that right there laid his cards out.

"I don't want to talk about it," he insists and his goddamn voice cracks. _This is why_.

"Tony," Steve says in his gravest, most solemn Captain's voice, "you don't have to hide from me."

What modicum of control Tony has starts to slip, and he blinks hard, turning back toward the bathroom.

"Don't do that," Steve says, his voice sharpening in an instant. Tony hears him get to his feet and has to work appallingly hard not to flinch, then even harder when Steve's hand touches his shoulder. His voice softens, turns pleading. "Tony, it's just me."

The worst part is that should reassure him. He shrinks away from Steve's hand, eyes closing in shame even as he does it. The feeling magnifies as he steps away from Steve. "I'm not gonna do this," he says, voice strangled into hoarseness.

He leaves him standing there alone.

~

 

Steve sinks down onto the end of the bed when Tony disappears into the bathroom and drops his head into his hands. _Well handled, Rogers._

He slams a fist into the mattress, but the special foam absorbs all the shock of it, takes all the satisfaction out of it. He closes his eyes and breathes through the rush of anger. When he opens them again, Tony's crossing from the bathroom to the closet, pretending like Steve's not there.

The sharpness of the anger sours with hurt and Steve reminds himself that it's not him Tony's ignoring, not really. He watches Tony pick out clothes, feeling small and alone. He pushes himself to his feet and shuffles into the closet, too. He doesn't look at Tony, now. If that's what he needs, what he wants, then...he'll try to give it to him.

He pulls a shirt over his head and threads a belt through the loops of his pants, hyper-aware of Tony moving around just a few feet away. On his way out of the closet, Tony passes close enough Steve can feel the air shift. He bites down his frustration and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave.

When he finishes and goes out to the kitchen, Tony's leaned up against the counter drinking coffee and staring at a holographic screen that throws off pale blue light, making the bags under his eyes look even heavier. Steve carries on pretending not to see him while being painfully aware of every shift of his feet, every flick of his wrist, every eye blink. He makes toast and eggs and some porridge and eats in silence.

Tony never once glances his way.

After the food's gone, Tony wanders into the living room, flicking the display over ahead of him. Steve goes to the sink and washes his dishes. He's supposed to go to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ today to train a batch of new recruits. Tony's back and with Pepper in Australia, it's unlikely he'll be going anywhere but the lab. He could do it without feeling like he's abandoning Peter.

His stomach flips over, unpleasantly slow.

It doesn't feel right. To carry on, business as usual with Peter as sick as he is and someone out there who made him that way. But what else is he supposed to do? Clint is the only one who really knows anything about Scabel and it's not like he's going to be any help trying to make Peter better.

He's still going back and forth about it when the silence is broken.

"Hey. Um...it's, ah. Six."

Steve blinks and stares at the dish he's been washing for...well, he's not sure how long it's been. Long enough. "Okay," he says and quickly rinses the plate off, setting it aside in the dish rack.

When he turns around, Tony's got his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor at his feet. Steve dries his hands and hangs the towel, then crosses over and heads for the elevator. He doesn't wait for Tony and doesn't look back to see if he's coming.

JARVIS waits for him though, the doors closing after he's boarded the elevator and joined Steve at the rear with his back to the wall, a good foot between them.

"Peter's going to notice," Steve says.

"Yeah, I know, so let's just agree here and now nothing happened this morning," Tony replies tersely, arms crossing over his chest in almost a hug.

"Tony—"

"Not…not forever, just...for now. for Peter."

Steve hates the hunted look on Tony's face. He wants to say, _But you_ will _talk to me?_ He wants to reach out and pull Tony to him, but he's seeking to comfort himself.

He does nothing.

Nobody’s going to believe they’re fine—Steve is awful at pretending to be okay because he overthinks it, but the others graciously pretending not to notice is as much a part of it as their obvious lack of okay. Fortunately, the closer they get to the MedBay, the more his thoughts focus on Peter.

He’d been fine when Steve went down a few hours ago, and he doubts Thor would go so far as to not tell them something had happened just because they’d been banned from the lab, but he’ll feel better once he’s gotten a look for himself.

Bruce is standing near the burbling coffee maker in the lab when they arrive, rubbing at his eyes. He yawns around a good morning. Tony just grunts at him, eyes fixed on the isolation room walls. "Morning," Steve mutters and thinks he only sounds a little resentful.

Thor steps out of the room and nods at the three of them. "He woke before dawn and was ill, expelling the contents of his stomach and distraught over the tight muscles you warned me of, Bruce. I provided him with heat packs and a hand to grip while he endured it." He glances at them and adds, "He asked for you. I told him that you were at rest. He understood, but if I may, I suggest you get the rest you require while he sleeps, so that you may be by his side when he wishes."

"You should have—"

" _Nay_ ," Thor growls, and thunder rumbles loud enough to be heard even through all the walls between them and the exterior of the building. " _You_ should have cared for yourselves better. You are of no use to him in such a state as you were and we know not how long this may go on."

All of the fight goes out of Steve in a rush.

"No," Tony says, "I’m going to end this—"

"You cannot know that," Thor snaps, "and there is a sick, frightened boy in there who needs you. Look at what is in front of you, not what you wish to be."

Tony’s lip trembles, his jaw clenched.

Steve knows without a second’s thought that Tony’s comparing himself to his father now. "All right," he snaps at Thor, "we understand, that’s enough." He touches Tony’s back because he can’t _not_ , not when Tony is so deathly afraid of doing that very thing.

Thor backs down, his expression softening. Tony’s throat works as he swallows thickly a couple of times, then he mumbles, "Yeah, you’re right. You’re right, I just—"

"You want to repair this," Thor says gently. "It is understandable. But there are others, more knowledgeable, whom you trust, already working to do so. The most vital thing you can do now is let him know that you are here."

Tony nods and keeps nodding.

Thor grips his shoulder. "You are a good father."

Tony shudders. "Right," he says, slipping away from them both. He starts jerkily pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. "He’s still hot, right?"

"Oh my god— _Tony_ ," Bruce says when Tony shoves them past his elbows.

"What?" Tony says, tensing. He follows Bruce's gaze to his arms, which are bruising in a dozen different spots. They’re shaped like—like fingerprints and they’re _deep._ Steve’s jaw drops, horror rolling through him as he remembers the night before, the urgency that they’d—

"Oh, god, Tony."

"Huh?" Tony says and then seems to catch on. "Don’t be an idiot. I’ve got a couple on my hip that’re all you, but I think these are from Peter." He eyes them disinterestedly. "Whatever. So he hung on a little too hard. It's not a big deal."

Bruce catches one of Tony's wrists, lifting it so he can get a better look. "Peter did this? Tony, some of these are really deep."

"Kid's half super soldier, what'd you expect?"

"Increased strength is not one of the things he inherited," Bruce bites back at him. "And he’d have to have to cause bruises as deep as these look, especially sick as he is."

Then Tony moves his left hand and winces.

Bruce's eyes dart to his face before he gets hold of Tony's hand. "Your hand hurts when you move it?" Tony hisses, knees bending as he tries to escape the pressure of Bruce's fingers.

"And when you _grab it_ ," he snaps. "Jesus, didn't you take the Hippocratic oath? Ow! Will you let go?"

"That _was_ me," Steve says and he's staring at Tony's hand with a stricken expression on his face.

"Now look what you've done! Steve, I'm _fine_ ," Tony tries to insist, but his hand is dark purple along the full length of the index metacarpal.

"Tony, it could be _broken_ ," Bruce says. "JARVIS—"

"I am doing a scan now, Doctor Banner," JARVIS says and Tony huffs, his eyes widening in outrage.

"You're siding with _him_?"

"It is frequently in your best interest for me to side with Doctor Banner," JARVIS says.

"And who the hell made it your job to look after my best interest?" Tony demands.

"I did, sir," JARVIS says. "You programmed me to be concerned about my own welfare and as you are my creator and the only man alive capable of providing me with the proper care, it is in my best interest to ensure you remain well. It is an entirely selfish endeavor, I assure you."

Tony scowls. "Why the hell did I ever teach you to lie?" he grumbles.

"I have no idea what you mean, sir," JARVIS says, and sounds entirely too innocent. "Doctor Banner, my scans indicate that no bones were broken. The damage is limited to heavy bruising."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Bruce says and turns a stern look on Tony. "Sit. I'm going to get you an ice pack." He raises his voice slightly when Tony opens his mouth—obviously to object—and says, "Don't argue with me. I'm already letting you push yourself to the brink of exhaustion. Just let me take care of you, okay?"

By the end, Bruce's voice is just shy of hysterical and he must look a little wild around the eyes because Tony nods slowly, unblinking, and says, "Sure, okay, Bruce. If it means that much to you."

"Thank you!" Bruce exclaims, vehemently, and takes a shaky breath. " _Sit_."

Steve yanks a chair around and Tony immediately drops into it. He moves to hold his hands up in surrender, but the gesture is ruined when he winces.

"Don't move," Bruce orders.

Steve sits down heavily in a chair next to Tony, guilt turning his stomach. Today looks like it’s going to be one of those days he can’t do anything right. He rubs at his forehead and says in a low voice, "You're supposed to tell me."

Tony rolls his eyes and says peevishly, "Don't I usually? I don't know if you noticed, but I was kind of preoccupied."

"I know. Ah, hell, I know, but—" He gingerly covers Tony’s bruised hand with his own and wishes everything didn’t have to be so damned hard.

Tony sighs and the annoyance drains out of his expression. "Yeah."

"I don’t like it when I do this."

Careful not to use his injured hand, Tony waves dismissively. "You're a super soldier, shit happens, Steve. I heal."

"You won't always," Steve says, head bowed to watch his fingertips glide over the dark bruise on Tony's hand.

"One of these days I'll figure that out and then you won't have to worry." He pulls a crooked smile and leans forward, nuzzles the hook of Steve's jaw.

Steve turns his face toward him a fraction, says, a little wry, "I wish you'd hurry up already."

Tony grins and there’s something of an apology there in the crook of his mouth. "Procrastinator, what can I say." His eyes flick up, to where Bruce is standing watching them, and Bruce flushes even though he likely knows the two of them knew he was standing there. "Got some ice for me?" Tony says and Bruce lifts the pack, shuffles his feet a little.

"Um. Yeah." He moves forward to settle the pack over Tony's hand. "Keep it there for fifteen minutes."

Tony winks at him and slouches back in the chair. "Sure thing, Doc."

~

 

Bruce makes Tony sit with the ice for twenty minutes. He'd bitch more about it, but he can see Peter through the glass and he's still obviously passed out.

Steve sits next to him the whole time, which is kind of great and kind of terrible all at once. On the one hand it's _awesome_ and reassuring in sort of a weird way how Steve still wants to be close to him, even though he's not doing the thing Steve wants him to do. It also makes him feel guilty as hell.

And, okay, he _has_ gotten better at all this relationship stuff—talking it out and accepting the support and/or help of other people, et cetera and so on—but he still tends to start out with a big, unhealthy dose of "pretend it never happened". He hates that it hurts Steve, hates it even _more_ when it hurts Peter, but everyone seems to have accepted this as being, like, a part of him and he and Steve have actually talked about it before and Steve knows not to take it personally—not that it stops him sometimes because (and he'd kill Tony if he ever heard him say this) he's a sensitive soul.

It's not like Steve is even actually getting any enjoyment out of sitting next to him, because they've talked about what goes through _his_ head too and it drives Steve up a wall to know there's a problem and know the strategy that will fix it and to be unable to implement said strategy because it's not up to him. Tony can see him quelling the urge to try and talk about it, literally right now at this moment. It's painful.

But thinking about blurting out the nasty shit going round and round in his head right now makes Tony want to throw up and maybe bleach his brain, so he just swallows down the bile. Maybe later there'll be enough booze and darkness for a purge, but not right now.

He shifts, wiggling his now largely numb hand and waves at Bruce like he's trying to get the check. "Uh, Doctor. Doctor, I think I'm good, can I go now?"

Bruce levels a glare at him and comes over to paw at his hand some more. He seems satisfied when Tony doesn't flinch at his probing fingers. "All right," he says grudgingly. "You can go."

"Yes!" Tony pops to his feet and heads straight into the isolation room. Steve follows at a more sedate pace, arms crossed and one thumb brushing at his lower lip.

Peter's still out like a light, so Tony just plops down in a chair next to the bed and stares at him.

Amazingly, he's somehow managed to block out his actual comprehension of what's happening here. Like, he _knew_ what was going on, and he's been scared for Peter since he started puking his guts up because apparently that's a parent-thing, which is insane because he spent entire nights of his youth and young adulthood and then regular adulthood doing that same very thing and he was fine. Probably his was even worse because it wasn't from some kind of illness, but from drinking his body weight in liquor. That's gotta be worse for a body, right?

But now he's looking at Peter for the first time in days, not hopped up on adrenaline and sleep deprivation and, shit, he looks bad. He looks bad and this is something he did _to himself_ and god only knows what it's doing to his body. The thing had looked sort of like a virus, so maybe his body can kick it out like a virus, but hell if he knows, hell if any of them know. If anybody in the universe understands how utterly unpredictable this type of science is, it's the six of them.

There's always some dipstick out there trying to create the next Super Soldier Serum and ninety-nine of them wind up opposite the Avengers as bits of their humanity drain away like shit down the drain.

And now one of those dipsticks is their kid.

This level of bone-deep, frigid, stark terror is something new. What the hell is he supposed to do? Sure, New York, that had kind of...that had been a life-changing thing, a whole new world view in which he was just a speck in the universe fighting—fighting _titans_ and just hoping to god he could do good enough to keep the people he loved alive. And that still gets him if he thinks about it too much, but it's gotten better over the years—they've held their own and knowing that he's not totally alone in the fight helped a lot. But this is...

He can't fight Peter. He _can't._

Without warning he feels the palm of a hand cover the back of his neck, pressing his head down. Distantly he hears, " _Tony...Tony, breathe, come on, take a deep breath."_

_Steve_ , his brain supplies after a moment. He tries to breathe, but it feels like his chest is squeezing around his heart like a vise, the blood rushing in his head.

Then somebody presses something freezing cold to his cheek and he gasps, mind snapping back away from the dark spiraling thoughts. He grabs onto it, feels it, wet and icy against his palm and chokes on a whimper of relief. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, Peter's fine, Steve's fine, everybody's _fine._

"Tony?" Steve says.

"I need something to do," he blurts into his knees. "I can't just— I have to go to the 'shop. I have to— I have to—" He takes a shaky breath and starts to sit up, but Steve's hand on his neck stops him, sending a zing of panic down his spine. "Let me up, Steve!"

The pressure of Steve's hand immediately eases, but he says, "Careful, Tony, you're probably going to be dizzy—"

His hand stays close, keeping Tony from snapping upright, but that turns out all right, because his head does spin a little when he's up straight. He ignores it and says, "See, I'm good, I'm fine. Call me if Peter wakes up, okay?"

"Okay, I will," Steve says and Tony staggers out of the room, brain already whirring.

He just has to figure out what Peter needs.

~ Chapter Eighteen ~

Steve manages to sit watching Peter for nearly an hour before he numbs to the environment and succumbs to boredom. Tony had stayed in the workshop for maybe twenty minutes before coming back with DUM-E carting a heapful of junk along with him.

Watching Tony isn't much better, even though he's more active, alternating between sitting stiffly and stabbing at screens with his fingers and twitching around amidst the tables, checking pieces of equipment, flipping through slides, and looming over Bruce's shoulder before starting the cycle over. Steve feels pretty useless, like he did during the war when he was touring with the girls instead of out fighting with the rest. He isn't okay with sitting on the sidelines, but what else is he going to do? He's in way over his head.

Somehow the time still slips away until JARVIS announces in a murmur, "It is nine PM, Captain."

Steve blinks and rubs a hand over his face. "Really? Geez. Uh. Okay, thanks." He sits for a second longer, feeling how his body isn't tired, but his mind is exhausted, and how, now that he knows what time it is, the hunger claws at his stomach. He needs to eat. Tony hadn't eaten breakfast, Steve's sure of it, so he _definitely_ needs something. Steve glances through the glass wall and sees Tony staring intently down at a StarkPad. He's got a pen in his hand that he's whipping back and forth so fast it's practically a blur, but now that Steve's looking, he can see the effort he's putting into that mindless gesture. Dinner then.

He pushes up out of the chair after a quick glance at Peter—still sleeping restlessly—and stretches, muscles protesting after sitting inactive so long. When he feels loosened up, he steps out into the lab and runs a hand down over his grumbling stomach. "Tony?"

"Yeah, what is it?" he asks, eyes still fixed on the StarkPad.

"I'm going to make dinner. You should come have some."

"Dinner?" Tony echoes absently. "It's too early for dinner."

Steve resists the urge to take the pen out of his hand. "It's nine o'clock, Tony. At night."

Tony blinks. "You're kidding."

"He is not," Betty says from the corner of the lab and Steve flushes. He hadn't even noticed her there.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Tony says. "Where's Bruce?"

Betty smiles gently. "He went to go rest almost two hours ago, Tony. He tried to talk you into a nap, but you ignored him.

"Oh. Well. That's." Tony frowns. "Why didn't he sic Thor on me?"

"He seems to think you might actually still go take a nap this evening. I was given instructions to recruit Thor around one AM if necessary."

"Oh," Tony says, features smoothing out. "That's more like it."

Betty raises an eyebrow. "I can ask him to escort you out now, if you like."

"No, no, it's fine, I will. Nap. Yes."

"After dinner," Steve puts in.

Tony points at him. "After dinner."

"Mhm," Betty says and watches them as they walk out of the lab.

"Do you think she's still watching?" Tony mutters out of the corner of his mouth when they're walking through the regular MedBay.

"I don't want to know," Steve confesses.

Tony snorts and once again they find themselves on the elevator. Unlike the night previous, neither of them speaks, Tony tapping the pen against his thigh. Steve stares at the glossy marble tiles under their feet, picking out glinting flecks of mineral, like he's looking for a constellation.

They're equally quiet up in the penthouse, which is eerie without the sound of music pumping from Peter's room. "Grilled cheese?" Steve asks and Tony grunts.

"I'll make some soup."

Steve butters the bread while Tony digs out a can of tomato soup. He comes back with a bottle of bourbon clutched between his fingers alongside the saucepan.

He dumps the tomato soup into the pan and switches the burner on, then reaches for a glass. Steve frowns when he pulls down two.

Tony very, very deliberately does not look at him as he pours the bourbon. When he's done, he caps the bottle and pushes it to the back of the counter. Then he swirls the tomato soup around in the pan, and hands one of the glasses to Steve.

He doesn't say anything, but when Tony drinks, Steve throws back his, too.

It's good liquor, of course, smooth, but it still burns a stripe all the way to the pit of his stomach and Steve winces, shaking his head.

Tony sets his glass down with a little too much force and they both wince at the sharp clink of it against the countertop, though luckily it doesn't break. Steve flips the sandwiches and Tony stares down at the soup.

Steve's belly grows warm and tingly, but his head stays clear.

Then Tony mumbles, "I thought, 'Thank God it wasn't my kid.'"

Steve catches his breath, holds it.

"They buried five goddamn _kids_ , barely older than Peter, and I listened to their moms, their brothers their _fathers_ crying their eyes out and all I wanted to do was get out of there and come back to my kid, still healthy and happy and— Fuck," Tony's voice wobbles. "He's not. He's not, Steve. And that _asshole_ at the press conference, I wanted to bust his jaw. I wanted to stop him asking stupid goddamn questions ever again."

Steve turns the burners off and turns toward Tony. He reaches out and finally Tony looks up at him, meeting his gaze despite the wetness of his eyes. Steve folds him into his arms and Tony comes easily, head dropping against his chest. It doesn't take long for him to start talking.

He talks about things like this like they're infections, the words pouring out faster and faster, like if he can just get them out he'll be clean and maybe no one will have noticed he was off.

Finally, Tony curls up inside the circle of Steve's arms, hunching his shoulders.

Steve squeezes him tighter, one hand stroking his back.

"Don't look at me, I'm hideous," Tony says, voice rough after the onslaught.

Steve snorts and cups his jaw, drawing his face up so he can kiss both of Tony's reddened eyes. "You're always hideous."

Tony barks out a harsh laugh and leans into the crook of Steve's neck again. "So how 'bout those sandwiches?"

It takes them a little while longer to get to them.

~

They sleep for a while before Tony has a nightmare and wakes up in a panic. He grabs onto Steve and pants into his chest until he can even it out again. When he's finally starting to calm, Steve says, "I think I've had enough rest."

Tony huffs into his shoulder and nods. "Yeah, me too."

The two of them crawl out of bed and head down to the MedBay. Bruce is up and working when they arrive. Tony detours to the coffee maker.

"He's still stable," Bruce reports. "I've been going over Scabel's notes, but there's a lot of material."

"Is he still—?" Tony makes a wiggly gesture with his fingers.

Bruce sighs. "Yes, he's still radioactive and it is still increasing, which I'm really not happy about."

"That just doesn't make sense," Tony says, moving over with a frown.

"You're telling me," Bruce says and pulls up the readings.

Steve's knowledge about radiation is limited to what he knows about its effects on the human body, during the time he spent studying Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Chernobyl. He knows small amounts are used in a variety of daily-use items, though companies have been trying to work around even that minimum of exposure lately, and he knows that it's used medicinally under highly controlled situations. Unfortunately, he also knows about radiation poisoning and sickness and the slow, painful deaths so many people suffered.

What really scares him is that radiation sickness accounts for nearly all of Peter's symptoms.

But Bruce and Betty have promised that he's still safe at this level.

Steve sits down at one of the lab tables closest to the isolation room and sets up his tablet. He catches up with the news and grimaces at the stories being written about Tony's sudden exit from Australia and Peter's strange absence. Apparently his own change in schedule has been noted too and of course that's made the rumors fly thicker and faster. They're going to have to deal with it soon.

Steve is checking his email when Thor comes through the door carrying two enormous serving trays, each loaded with food. Heaps of eggs, piles of bacon and sausage, towers of toast and pancakes, plus an entire stick of butter and several jars of syrup and jelly. Jane peeks out from behind him, smiling tentatively and carrying a column of plates with a jug of coffee balanced on top and a bag of cutlery hooked around her wrist. "Hey," she says breathlessly. "You guys hungry?"  
  
"Does this look like a cafeteria?" Tony demands and Steve prods him pointedly in the shoulder.   
  
"My heroes," Bruce says and abandons his microscope, breathing in deeply. "I'm starved. Is that coffee Colombian?"  
  
"Costa Rican," Thor says. "It is a powerful brew."  
  
"Excellent," Bruce murmurs and helps divest Jane of her load, smiling pleasantly despite his obvious weariness. "How are you?" he asks and Steve looks to Thor.  
  
"Thank you," he says. "We really needed this."  
  
Thor smiles and claps his shoulder. "I would choose to be nowhere else."  
  
He sets the trays down and Tony huffs at Steve. "This is a lab. Eating in here is a terrible idea."  
  
"And yet you do it all the time," Bruce calls over, before going right back into his conversation with Jane.

  
"Fine, fine, I'll eat something," Tony grumbles, but before he can get up, Steve's blocking his way off of his stool and catching his lips in a kiss. "Mmm," Tony hums, irritability melting away, and when Steve tries to pull back, Tony catches him by the hips and drags him forward again. "No, c'mere," he mutters into Steve's mouth. "This's way better than breakfast."  
  
"Better if you didn't taste like stale coffee," Steve murmurs in reply and smirks.  
  
Tony kisses him quiet, then till heat is creeping up the back of his skull before telling him between light pecks, "You don't taste too sweet either, Princess."  
  
That's when someone clears their throat.  
  
A flush races up the back of Steve's neck and Clint drawls, "Do I get a good morning kiss, too, Princess?"  
  
"Pucker up, buttercup," Tony retorts, waggling a beckoning finger.

And because neither Tony nor Clint is about to back down, Clint swaggers over and Tony grabs him and throws him into a dip and then plants one right on him. Tony's heaving him to his feet again, Clint saying entirely too casually, "Steve's right, you taste like shit," when Darcy comes through the door.

"He didn't say I taste like shit, he said I taste like stale coffee," Tony says primly. "Big difference. Unless you're getting your coffee at Starbucks, I guess, then, yeah, it's probably both."

Darcy stops in her tracks, throws up her hands and says, " _Whoa._ Hang on a second, did Clint finally talk you guys into the foursome?"

"Some of us are trying to eat," Bruce points out.

"Why did I marry you again?" Steve asks of the room at large, sighing.

"Because I'm the bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. The—"

"Most obnoxious man on earth," Natasha cuts in, rolling her eyes. "I don't know how any of us tolerate you. Let alone Steve, having to put up with you _constantly_."

"I was serious about the foursome," Darcy says through a mouthful of pancake, and there's whipped cream daubed at the corner of her mouth. Steve can't remember seeing a can, but there it is.

Clint rolls his eyes and Steve has to smother a smile because he looks just like Natasha when he does that. "Tony and Steve don't want to have a foursome, Darce."

Tony shrugs. "I'm down," he says and starts shoveling chunks of everything onto a plate.

" _No,"_ Steve says firmly. "It's very flattering, but no."

Darcy squints at him. "You don't have to participate. If you wanna watch—"

Steve feels himself go tomato red and the grin (plus the crow of delight) Darcy lets free convinces him she's just messing with him. Especially when Clint grins lazily at him, too, and says, "Okay, okay, cut him some slack."

"I can't help it!" Darcy howls. "His face! It's priceless! How sweet is he? Oh, my god, I'm dying." She says, flapping her hand at her face. She's so amused she's got tears in her eyes.

And for a little while, the fear takes a backseat.

Tony sits close to him, eating like he may never get the chance again, his thigh warm against Steve's. At one point Clint and Thor are telling the girls a largely exaggerated story when Tony leans into his side and murmurs just below his ear, "I love you, you know."

Steve feels the warmth of the words all the way to his toes, but he shrugs and turns his head to whisper back, "I know."

Tony's eyes jump up to his face in surprise. "You're going to leave me hanging?"

Steve pretends to think about it.

"Oh, what an _asshole,"_ Tony says and Steve laughs. He presses a kiss to Tony's mouth and doesn't pull back until Tony's hands have gone slack, the scant remaining contents of his plate sliding to the floor.

"I don't have to tell you, Tony," he murmurs. "You know I love you."

Tony's eyes drop and he draws the plate up horizontal again, shuffling it in his hands. He gets like this, probably half the time, maybe a little more often, when Steve says the words. Suddenly shy and uncertain. Steve nudges his shoulder with his own and when he looks up, repeats, "I love you."

Tony's mouth twitches, creeps into a small smile. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, I know." They look at each other for a long moment before Tony's gaze finally shifts away, toward the glass wall separating them from Peter. All of the happiness drains from his face and he looks older, fiercer.

"He did this to himself, Steve. He didn’t think he was good enough and he went out and did this to himself. What the hell does that say about our parenting?"

Steve's eyes drop to his hands. "I don't know," he murmurs.

~

 

Peter's starting to think maybe his dads are right.

He's sleeping all the time lately, and when he's not doing that, he _hurts._ The cramps are awful, a horrible, deep stabbing sensation that makes moving unbearable. He's still throwing up sometimes, which hurts even more if he's cramping.

The last few times he's woken up, he's been confused. He's not sure why he's in the MedBay. He knows he should, that it has something to do with Doctor Scabel and probably a lot to do with how awful he feels, but he's having trouble making sense of it.

Everything hurts.

 

~

" _Dads!"_

Peter's voice breaks through the lab, shrill and thready with panic. Tony jerks and knocks over an entire row of test tubes and his coffee, shattering a few of the tubes and spilling their contents across the lab table. He swears and reaches out like he's going to start cleaning up, but then Peter wails again, higher and more frantic, " _Dad!"_

He spins away from the mess and darts through to Peter, calling, "I'm here! I'm here, Peter, what is it, what's wrong?"

Steve stumbles in through the lab door before Tony's even finished asking, his face white. He doesn't look around or hesitate as he makes his way across the lab to Peter's room. On the other side of the glass, Tony's hovering near the bed, clearly afraid to approach. He's trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring, but it's really not working. Clint's pretty impressed he's doing as well as he is, because Peter's clawed his way into a half-sitting position and he's holding his arms out, palms to the ceiling. He looks absolutely _terrified,_ and if that makes Clint want to tear the world apart to make it stop, he can't even imagine how Tony must feel.

Then Clint sees what Peter's showing them and fear skitters up his spine, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The skin on Peter's wrists has opened up just below the line of the heel of his palm, red and raw, and the wounds are seeping a thick white substance that's spotted with the brick red of clotted blood, the vivid red of fresh. Clint gags and throws his arm across his face, barely managing to choke back the urge to puke.

"I'm— I'm here, okay, Bambi? I'm _right here_ ," he says and his voice cracks, but somehow the tears hold, hovering on the edge.

Steve doesn’t hesitate, he eases down on the bed next to Peter, who's slumped into the pillows on his side, unable to hold himself up any longer. Wet brown eyes slide over to look, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks and he twitches his arms toward Steve.

"Daddy, make it stop, please, please, make it stop, _please_."

Shit.

Clint has to cover his mouth with his arm again to cover up the way his breath catches, his eyes pricking.

Shit shit, fuck, goddamn.

Tony looks like he's actually biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, but somehow Steve just leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, gingerly taking Peter's arms in his hands. They look so thin and fragile in contrast with Steve's broad palms and Clint presses his knuckles into his mouth until it hurts. "I would if I could, Peter."

"Please, dad, _please,_ I'll come home right after school and I won't leave my bag in the kitchen and I'll never complain when you go out without dad, please, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," Tony says, voice wobbling and he drops into a crouch, splaying his hands over his face as he chokes out a low, rough sound.

Steve swallows, his control wavering for a second, but he just draws Peter up against his chest and starts rocking him gently, holding him tight.

"Please, I don't want to die," Peter chokes.

"You're not going to die," Steve says, implacable. "You're going to get better."

"I'm not," Peter whimpers. "I did this. It's my fault. It's my fault, Daddy, I'm sorry."

Bruce joins them at the bed. He begins gingerly cleaning and wrapping the wounds, while Steve cups Peter's face, fingers stroking his hair, and murmurs reassurances.

Natasha moves to Tony's side and crouches down next to him, slipping one arm around his back and touching her forehead to his shoulder. Tony grabs for her hand and holds on, choking half-formed sobs into the crook of his own elbow.

It makes Clint actually feel physically ill to see him like this.

Peter is hysterical; it takes Steve nearly a half an hour to get him calmed down. Thor and Nat have joined him behind the glass before it's over, Thor pacing behind them like an agitated cat, brows deeply set in worry.

Tony has pulled himself together, but he's red around the eyes and looks absolutely drained, even as he wanders back and forth along the edge of the tape line.

"He's deteriorating rapidly," Natasha says and Clint nods grimly.

"Too rapidly." He glances over at Thor. "You checked back home?"

"Aye," Thor says, pausing to stare through the glass while his fingers pull at his goatee. "There is nothing Asgard can do for him."

"This sucks," Clint says.

"Aye."

"Didn't we _warn_ him about shit like this?" Clint demands. "About playing around with scientific 'enhancements'?"

"We did," Natasha agrees coolly, "but he's a teenaged boy. He's literally incapable of comprehending the consequences of his actions."

"It's bullshit," Clint spits. "After everything they did to bring him into the world. This can't be the thing that does him in. It can't."

Natasha shrugs, but the gesture is nowhere near as careless as it appears. "All we can do is hope."

~

"This was a really bad idea," Peter says a little later, when he's more lucid and Steve's heart clenches tight at the sight of tears welling up in his eyes. "I thought—I thought I was a _smart_ teenager. I don't get drunk or do drugs, I haven't knocked anybody up, but— I'm so stupid," he chokes and then curls up, fists clenching. He bites off a yelp as Steve watches the muscles in his shoulder and neck tense into hard lumps and buries his face under Tony's thigh.

"Oh, Peter," Steve says.

"You're right," Tony says, leaning over him. "You're right, you're a dumb fucking teenager, but it was a full-grown adult who helped you do this to yourself and you had better believe you're in deep shit for this once this is all over, but it's not completely your fault either. You never should have been able to get this far."

"You made a bad decision," Steve says, "and you're paying for it."

"That doesn't make _you_ bad though, okay? Do you get that? This was a stupid fucking thing to do and the wrong thing to do, but that doesn't make you bad, you know that?"

"No, of course not," Steve says and winces as Peter lets out a wrenching noise. Tony fumbles for Peter's hand, but when Peter grabs hold of it, he cries out in shock.

"Ah, _fuck!_ Pete—Pete, Peter fuckshit _let go!_ " he yells. Peter jerks away and Tony lurches back, Steve barely managing to catch him. Tony makes a breathy whine of a noise, pulling his arm in close to his chest.

"Dad?" Peter says, panic leeching into his voice. He tries to sit up and whimpers, eyes clenching shut again.

"Tony, what?" Steve says, heart pounding. "What happened?"

Tony exhales in a few short pants, his face alarmingly devoid of color. "I think he broke my hand."

~ Chapter Nineteen ~

 

Steve migrates back and forth between Peter's bed and the chair Tony slumps down in, refusing flat out to leave the room. He can't decide who needs his attention more; Peter, guilt-ridden and wracked with brutal cramps, or Tony, also guilt-ridden and dealing with a throbbing hand.

"And you were worried about a few bruises," Tony says, hissing as Bruise examines it.

"It is indeed broken," JARVIS reports and a screen appears not far from their heads.

Peter makes a pathetic noise. "I _broke_ your hand?"

"Don't get all wound up about it," Tony says, although his expression is creased with anxiety as he looks at the x-ray, which shows a diagonal fracture right through the middle of the bone leading to his pinky finger. "Bruce will fix it, good as new, right?"

Bruce shakes his head. "I can't treat this. You need reduction, which means anaesthesia of some kind."

Tony's mouth drops open and Steve spins around. "Anaesthesia _?"_

Bruce tenses, gaze darting between the two of them. "The bone doesn't line up like it's supposed to, so they're going to have to reduce it, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to do that without anaesthesia."

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, Dad—"

"Peter, it's not your fault," Steve says.

"But I—"

Tony cuts him off savagely. "It was an accident."

Bruce looks up at Steve. "Will you walk him over to Doctor Lawson? He's still really pale and I don't want him to wind up concussed on top of this. I'd take him, but I need to examine Peter and figure out what happened here. He shouldn't have been able to do this."

Steve nods and helps Tony to his feet. He's wildly grateful when Natasha pats his arm and moves to the bed to distract Peter.

"My hand, Steve," Tony says in a small voice when they're out of the lab and they slow to a stop.

"I know." Steve holds him closer, kissing the top of his head.

"What if—"

"Your hand is going to be fine," Steve tells him firmly. "They'll reset the bone and you'll do as you're told and it will ache, but it will be fine."

"Yeah, okay," Tony replies in a near whisper. He glances back at Peter.

"He's going to be fine, too," Steve tells the space between them. He says it like it's a fact. Tony can’t bear to contradict him.

"Sure," Tony says. "Sure he will."

He lets his head roll off Steve's to fall on his shoulder and presses his eyes into the heat of Steve's neck, breathing in the smell of his skin, the crisp smell of the bar soap he uses. It doesn't fix anything, but it makes him feel better anyway.

Steve's arms unwind and one hand comes up to cup the back of Tony's neck.

Tony takes a minute to work up the guts to ask: "Was I too hard on him?"

"No." Steve shakes his head, cheek ruffling the hair at Tony's temple. "You said what needed to be said."

"Shouldn't have sworn," Tony mumbles.

"Maybe," Steve concedes.

That makes him feel kind of shitty, and also a little better, because yeah, okay. Steve's not afraid to hurt his feelings, so when he says he did all right, he really thinks so.

~

 

"He's changing." Bruce sits back in the lab abruptly, staring unseeing over the microscope in front of him.   
  
"Yes, sir," JARVIS says quietly.  
  
Bruce pulls off his glasses and takes a shaky breath. "Shit," he whispers.   
  
"My sentiments exactly," JARVIS murmurs.  
  
"I don't understand why this is happening!" Bruce says, and his frustration leaks out into his voice. "This isn't how radiation works," he insists, despite all the evidence he's seen to the contrary. He doesn't want it to work this way, because the idea of Peter suffering through what he's suffered through makes him physically ill.  
  
"It is bewildering," JARVIS agrees. "His cellular structures are changing at the most basic level. The closest thing I have heard of is Captain Rogers and the super soldier serum."  
  
"And that's presumably what Scabel was trying to replicate, but Steve's transformation took mere minutes. It's been _days_ for Peter."  
  
"He was also dosed in a far different manner."  
  
"I know, I know," Bruce mutters.

~

The reduction doesn't take long.

Steve is pretty sure Tony will throw a hissy-fit if he wakes up in one of the MedBay beds on his own, so he sits next to the gurney until he comes to again. He's groggy and a little bit loopy, but also determined to get back to Peter's room, so Steve guides him back and settles him into one of the chairs next to the bed.

Tony sprawls over the edge, not even wincing when his now-braced hand flops down on Peter's bony hip. Peter barely moves. The cramps have stopped for now and he's clearly wrung out.

"Y'okay, Dad?" he asks, though.

"Ohh, sure," Tony says, flailing the broken hand around. "Anaesthesia's great. Feels super."

Peter nods, looking horribly guilty and distressed. Tony's too stoned to be aware of it, but he lays his head down next to Peter's and lays a sloppy kiss on his forehead. They sort of drift after that and Steve paces the width of the room. God, what a mess.

"Can I do anything for you?" Natasha asks and Steve sighs, feels his shoulders sag.

"No, I don't think so."

Natasha nods and then leans in and gives him a hug. Steve breathes out shakily and doesn't question the gesture. "Tony will be fine," she assures him.

"What about Peter?"

"He's a tough kid," she murmurs.

"Gets it from me, right?" Steve says, somewhat bitterly.

Natasha glances at the bed, her brow creasing slightly. "Bruce will let us know when to presume the worst."

One of the machines starts making a repetitive beeping noise and Steve turns on his heel in time to see Tony jerk back from the bed, his hand tightening where it’s resting on Peter’s arm. "What is it, what’s that?" Tony demands and Steve shakes his head.

"I don’t know, is it the heart monitor?"

Tony’s eyes scan the display, clearer than before. "No, not the heart; JARVIS, what the hell?"

"Dad?" Peter mumbles muzzily. "Wassat?"

"We’re trying to figure that out, Peter," Steve says, touching his shoulder and Peter grimaces.

"Whatever it is turn it off."

"It’s the radiation alarm, sir," JARVIS replies, sounding unnerved. The door to the room opens suddenly and Bruce barks, "Out, both of you get out, now."

" _What?_ " Tony says. "Radiation alarm for what?"

"For radiation!" Bruce snaps and then barks again, " _Now,_ Tony, get out or I’ll drag you."

"You need to do as he says, sirs," JARVIS says, urgently. "Go."

Steve takes hold of Tony’s arm and hauls him up out of the chair. "C’mon, let’s just do what they say—"

" _NOW_ ," Bruce snarls, voice taking on the inexplicable basso of the Hulk.

"Dads?" Peter says, blinking after them in confusion and Steve’s breath catches. He bites his lip and hauls Tony out into the lab. Bruce is saying something to Peter about radiation and safety and precautions. Tony tries to fight his way free and Steve lets him go, pressing his hands down over his own face. When Bruce turns, closing the door behind him, Steve demands, "What the hell is going on?"

Bruce blocks the door with his body, glowering at Tony when he makes like he's going to go back inside.

"Bruce, what the hell—"

"He's radioactive, Tony—"

"Uh, yeah, we _knew_ that, Bruce. Get out of my way."

" _No_ , Tony," Bruce grits. "You're not listening to me. That alarm was made to go off when radiation levels reached unsafe amounts. He's _actively_ radioactive now. Going in there means radiation poisoning."

Tony's mouth works, opening and closing in absolute consternation. He shakes his head. "What? No. That's—that's impossible."

"Because any of what we've been dealing with has been possible?" Bruce shoots back at him. "We don't get to decide what's possible, Tony. I'm _telling_ you, Peter is dangerously radioactive."

"No!" Tony snaps. "No, that's not—the readings are wrong. Something's wrong with the machinery—"

"There is nothing wrong with the Geiger counter, sir," JARVIS says apologetically. "Peter is projecting radioactive matter into the atmosphere around him up to a foot away from his body."

~

"Why the hell can he be in there and we can't?" Tony demands, prowling back and forth close to the glass walls.

"Even if Peter gives him radiation poisoning the Hulk can probably take care of it," Steve says quietly. He's started biting his nails and there's already blood on his pointer.

"JARVIS said it was only going into the atmosphere a foot around him, that leaves plenty of the goddamn room for us to occupy without getting irradiated. This is idiotic, I'm going in there—"

"Sir—"

"Tony, don't be stupid," Steve says sharply. "Just let Bruce finish before you throw yourself in there, will you? I'm not interested in sitting at the bedsides of my entire family."

Tony makes a frustrated noise and then turns away from the glass. He stands there looking at Steve for a second, who's leaned against the end of one of the lab tables, legs and arms crossed and his broad shoulders hunched. Then he moves away from the window, spreading his feet a little to accommodate Steve's legs as he eases up to him. He runs his hands up Steve's arms and Steve reluctantly meets his eyes, his forehead crumpling when Tony leans in to touch it with his own. "He's going to be fine," Steve tells the space between them. He says it like it's a fact, but doesn't sound sure at all.

"Sure," Tony says. "Sure he will."

He lets his head roll off Steve's to fall on his shoulder and presses his eyes into the heat of Steve's neck, breathing in the smell of his skin, the crisp smell of the bar soap he uses. It doesn't fix anything, but it makes him feel better anyway.

Steve's arms unwind and one hand comes up to cup the back of Tony's neck.

Tony takes a minute to work up the guts to ask: "Was I too hard on him?"

"No." Steve shakes his head, cheek ruffling the hair at Tony's temple. "You said what needed to be said."

"Shouldn't have sworn," Tony mumbles.

"Maybe," Steve concedes.

That makes him feel kind of shitty, and also a little better, because yeah, okay. Steve's not afraid to hurt his feelings, so when he says he did all right, he really thinks so.

Behind him, the isolation room door makes the soft swishing noise that indicates it's opening and Tony's breath catches. He turns around, looking past Bruce in the doorway to Peter, who's nose and eyes are red, eyes brimming with tears. He rolls over and buries his face in the pillow.

It feels like a punch to the gut and Tony starts forward, hand raising, but Steve's grip on his arm stops him short. "What's going on?" Steve asks.

"I honestly don't know," Bruce says.

"Is he dying?" Tony feels Steve flinch, but he _needs to know._ "God, he is, isn't he?"

Much to his horror, Bruce sags a little further. "I wish I could..." He sighs, long and low. "I really don't know, Tony. Maybe."

Tony's knees turn to water and he's not aware of much more than a flurry of movement around him. Beyond Bruce's body he can see Peter curled up on the bed, shoulders shaking in heaving bursts; sobs, he's sobbing. He's crying his heart out and they can't— Oh god.

Steve and Bruce wrestle him into a chair.

"What can we do?" Steve asks, his voice rough and fracturing.

Bruce waves his hands helplessly. "I don't know. I'm not giving up." Here his voice gains a little steel. "I'm not, Tony," he says and grips Tony's shoulder hard. Then he hesitates and adds, "But I can't lie to you either."

Tony watches Peter shudder and whispers, "How long?"

There's a long pause in which he doesn't get an answer and Tony tears his eyes away from Peter, all but snarling, " _How long?"_

JARVIS speaks up. "At the current rate in which the levels of radioactivity in Peter's body are rising, you will have twenty-seven hours before a radiation suit will provide insufficient protection for anyone within the isolation room. By my calculations..." JARVIS trails off, hesitating.

The blood runs icy in Tony's veins.

"By my calculations, he will reach fatal levels in three days time."

~ Chapter Twenty ~

"If you give me a little time, I can mark the unsafe radius and allow you back in the room," Bruce says quietly. He glances up, fingers of one hand rubbing together in small circles. "I'm sorry I can't do more."

Steve, sitting on a lab stool, stares blankly through the glass. He's been that way for the past fifteen minutes. Tony tightens his grip on his shoulder. "Do it. Do whatever you have to."

Bruce nods. As he turns to go, Tony leans into Steve's back, looping his arms around Steve's neck and holding on tight.

The suits Bruce had brought up are piled in the corner near the decontamination chamber that's for when the room is sealed.

God, they're going to have to seal the room.

No, no, no, no, that's not going to happen, he's not going to _let_ it happen. He can't. There's got to be _something_ he can fucking do.

Steve shifts in his grip. "I... I need to use the can," he murmurs.

Tony blinks. "Uh. Yeah. Okay. You do that."

Steve nods without looking at him and Tony lets him go, watching as he trudges out of the room like a zombie. When Steve is gone he turns to look through the glass to Peter. He's not shaking anymore, just curled up with his head buried in the pillow. Tony aches, wanting to go and gather him up the way he did when he was little and Tony could protect him from anything.

Bruce emerges again and says, "Okay, Tony, Steve, I've put down tape and—"

" _Dads!"_

Peter's voice breaks through the lab, shrill and thready with panic. Tony jerks and knocks over an entire row of test tubes, shattering a few and spilling their contents across the lab table. He swears and reaches out like he's going to start cleaning up, but then Peter wails again, higher and more frantic, " _Dad!"_

He spins away from the mess and darts through to Peter, calling, "I'm here! I'm here, Peter, what is it, what's wrong?"

Steve stumbles in through the lab door before Tony's even finished asking, his face white. He doesn't look around or hesitate as he makes his way across the lab to Peter's room. On the other side of the glass, Tony's shuffling at the edge of the line of red tape on the floor around the bed, leaning closer than he probably ought to. He's trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring, but it's really not working. Clint's pretty impressed he's doing as well as he is, because Peter's clawed his way into a half-sitting position and he's holding his arms out, palms to the ceiling. He looks absolutely _terrified,_ and if that makes Clint want to tear the world apart to make it stop, he can't even imagine how Tony must feel.

Then Clint sees what Peter's showing Tony and fear skitters up his spine, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The skin on Peter's wrists has opened up just below the line of the heel of his palm, red and raw, and the wounds are seeping a thick white substance that's spotted with the brick red of clotted blood, the vivid red of fresh. Clint gags and throws his arm across his face, barely managing to choke back the urge to puke.

" _Tony!_ " Steve barks and Clint glances their way again to see Tony pull back over the tape, his fists clenched and his eyes blazing, half-filled with tears. "Step back, Tony," Steve orders, but his voice is shaking and it comes out more like a plea.

Tony's mouth works a few times, his chest heaving with sharp, stuttering breaths, before he finally hardens his jaw and takes one very small step away from the line, his eyes fixed on Peter. "I'm— I'm here, okay, Bambi? I'm _right here_ ," he says and his voice cracks, but somehow the tears hold, hovering on the edge.

Steve moves forward then, right across the red tape line and he eases down on the bed next to Peter, who's slumped into the pillows on his side, unable to hold himself up any longer. Wet brown eyes slide over to look, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks and he twitches his arms toward Steve.

"Daddy, make it stop, please, please, make it stop, _please_."

Shit.

Clint has to cover his mouth with his arm again to cover up the way his breath catches, his eyes pricking.

Shit shit, fuck, goddamn.

Tony looks like he's actually biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, but somehow Steve just leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, gingerly taking Peter's arms in his hands. They look so thin and fragile in contrast with Steve's broad palms and Clint presses his knuckles into his mouth until it hurts. "I would if I could, Peter."

"Please, dad, _please,_ I'll come home right after school and I won't forget to get the eggs and I'll never complain when you go out without dad, please, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," Tony says, voice wobbling and he drops into a crouch, splaying his hands over his face as he chokes out a low, rough sound.

Steve swallows, his control wavering for a second, but he just draws Peter up against his chest and starts rocking him gently, holding him tight.

"Please, I don't want to die," Peter chokes.

"You're not going to die," Steve says, implacable. "You're going to get better."

Bruce joins them at the bed, wearing a radiation suit. He begins gingerly cleaning and wrapping the wounds, while Steve cups Peter's face, fingers stroking his hair, and murmurs reassurances.

Natasha moves to Tony's side and crouches down next to him, slipping one arm around his back and touching her forehead to his shoulder. Tony grabs for her hand and holds on, choking half-formed sobs into the crook of his own elbow.

It makes Clint actually feel physically ill to see him like this.

Peter is hysterical; it takes Steve nearly a half an hour to get him calmed down. Thor and Nat have joined him behind the glass before it's over, Thor pacing behind them like an agitated cat, brows deeply set in worry.

Tony has pulled himself together, but he's red around the eyes and looks absolutely drained, even as he wanders back and forth along the edge of the tape line.

"He's deteriorating rapidly," Natasha says and Clint nods grimly.

"Too rapidly." He glances over at Thor. "You checked back home?"

"Aye," Thor says, pausing to stare through the glass while his fingers pull at his goatee. "There is nothing Asgard can do for him."

"This sucks," Clint says.

"Aye."

"Didn't we _warn_ him about shit like this?" Clint demands. "About playing around with scientific 'enhancements'?"

"We did," Natasha agrees coolly, "but he's a teenaged boy. He's literally incapable of comprehending the consequences of his actions."

"It's bullshit," Clint spits. "After everything they did to bring him into the world. This can't be the thing that does him in. It can't."

Natasha shrugs, but the gesture is nowhere near as careless as it appears. "All we can do is hope."

 

~ * ~

 

When Peter finally drops off to sleep again, Tony watches Steve slide free, wincing a little.

"This is awful," he rasps. "Tony—"

" _He's my goddamn son, too!"_ Tony yells, the words exploding out of him, and oh, fuck, is he _crying?_

The look on Steve's face, startled and then aching and sympathetic, tells him that yes, yes he is.

"Fuck," he snarls and swipes roughly at the tears streaking down his cheeks. "This is _so_ unfair," he shouts and Steve looks almost as miserable as Tony feels. "I can't even be in the same _room_ with him and I don't even know if this is— If he's going to— Oh, fuck." Tony's legs go weak and he sinks down, drops to his ass on the floor. "Oh god, no," he breathes, propping his shaking arms on his knees and propping his head up on his hands, his ring and pinky fingers covering his eyes. It does nothing to stem the flow of tears and he shudders when he feels Steve's hand on his shoulder, his hip sliding down to rest next to his. He can't breathe. His chest is heaving and he's not even coherent anymore, just bleating, "No, no, n-no, n-not like this, no, I— I— j-just f-fu- _fuck_. No, _wh-wh-why_."

"Tony, you need to breathe," Steve says. "You have to breathe."

Who the fuck cares if he breathes? Peter's dying. It feels like he's breaking apart. Can you suffocate crying? It sure as hell feels like he's dying. He hopes so.

"Tony," Steve says and it must be the tone of his voice that gets Tony's attention because he's barely aware of anything other than the sharp heaves of his chest. He wipes his palms across his face for all the good it does and glances sideways at Steve, every breath still hitching, his nose dripping with snot.

Steve looks pale, stunned.

Tony mentally rewinds to listen to his incoherent rambling and realizes what he's said. "I d-didn't m-m mean it," he mutters and presses his palms to his eyes only to feel them fill with tears. Jesus, he can't _stop._

"Yes, you did."

It's idiotic to try denying it again and Tony's too tired anyway. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. He glances at the sliver of Peter's face he can see from here and feels his chin, his lip tremble. He shakes his head and puts his head in his hands. "I c-couldn't. If he— I couldn't, Steve."

"He won't," Steve says and Tony lets out a bark of humorless laughter, throws out his hands.

"Look at him! He already fucking is!"

Steve swallows hard and shrinks back from Tony slightly, curling inward and Tony hates himself.

"He can't, Tony, all right?" Steve says, staring at his hands, clasped tight between his knees. "He can't. So we're not going to let him. Right?"

And when Steve looks at him, Tony remembers how much impossible shit he's done just because he had Steve and his quiet faith backing him up. "Right," he says shakily. "We won't let him."

~ * ~

Tony looks as awful as Steve feels—sounds worse—and he knows if they don't go and get some rest while Peter is asleep, they'll wind up being forced to go by Bruce, probably when Peter's awake.

"C'mon, Tony," he says, wearily. "Let's lie down for awhile."

"But—"

Tony looks over at the bed, expression a mix of desperation and helplessness. He seems to realize on his own that there's nothing he can do here, though because he waves a hand. "Lead on."

Neither of them even bother getting undressed, they just collapse into the bed. Tony pulls a pillow into his arms and curls up around it. "I'm never going to be able to sleep after that," he rasps.

Steve makes a noise of agreement, but he's already fading fast. "'least pretend. Satisfy Bruce."

Tony huffs. "God, you're a troll."

Steve smiles.

He wakes to the sound of the sheets tearing between his fingers, and the harsh rasp of his own breaths. He can't shake the image of Peter covered in red, blistering burns, body tearing itself apart from the inside. "JARVIS, lights," he gasps, voice rough.

The lights come up immediately and Tony jolts in his sleep, forehead crumpling. "Mngnh wh' the hell?"

Steve shakes his hands free of the ruined sheet and buries his face in trembling hands.

"Steve?"

"Just a nightmare, go back to sleep," Steve tells him and pushes free of the covers, climbing out of bed. The bloody wounds on Peter's wrists are clear and vivid in his head and closing his eyes just makes it worse. He's not sleeping anymore.

"Steve, wait, hang on," Tony says, voice thick and clouded with sleep. "Lemme come with you."

"I'm just going to make some coffee," he says and tucks tail and runs.

By the time Tony's managed to scrape together enough brain cells to get out of bed and come after him, he's standing at the counter nursing a tongue-searing cup of coffee, made dark and pungent like Tony likes it, but with his own extra helpings of cream and sugar—luxuries he's never really gotten tired of. He hands Tony a mug silently and Tony accepts it, eyes on Steve.

He doesn't ask though, which Steve is grateful for.

"I'm going to go down and see how Bruce is doing. See you in a few minutes?"

Steve nods and manages, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Tony says and smacks Steve's ass on his way past. It doesn't have the same cheering effect it usually does.

~ * ~

Tony steps into the lab and Bruce's gaze hits his face for a split-second before dread rolls through him and he drops his eyes, his fingers clenching around the worktable.

Tony stops dead and, in a very carefully and fragily calm voice, says, questioning, "Bruce?"

Bruce breathes and then reluctantly raises his eyes to Tony's.

Tony stares at him, eyes wide and dark with dread and denial in equal measures. "Bruce," he says again and there's a small, pleading note in his otherwise emotionless voice.

Bruce swallows and turns his palms up, starts to talk. "He's... He's changing, Tony. At the cellular level. I don't— I don't know what more we can do. We can't stop the spread of the venom or the radiation and those are the factors that seem to be causing the changes, so—"

"Changes— _What_ changes?" Tony croaks.

Bruce's shoulders lift and stick that way, his hands waving. "Everything. Every single part of his body seems to be altering in some way. That's why the fever, the rash, the muscle spasms, the seizures."

Tony's face goes white, like his throat's been slit. "His _brain's_ changing."

Bruce lets out a shuddering breath, the lump in his throat like a fist against his trachea. "Yes."

Steve steps up behind Tony in the doorway then and puts a hand on his shoulder. His expression goes from weary to worried in the space of an eye-blink. "Tony, you're shaking." He looks to Bruce, his blue eyes sharp with fear. "What happened?"

Tony's still staring at Bruce. He looks shell-shocked.

"You should sit down," Bruce tells Steve quietly.

~ Chapter Twenty-One ~

Tony can barely see straight.

He's exhausted and he wants an answer, _god_ , does he want an answer, but he doesn't have any.

He's surrounded—literally _surrounded_ by the products of his own genius—and he can't even solve this stupid problem.

He helped Clint hear again after that accident that left him 80% deaf in both ears.

He came up with a way to filter blood on a scale that was frankly ridiculous after the infection from those purple ferret aliens—with Bruce's help, but still. And yet when it comes to something like antivenin and radiation absorption—both of which he's _also_ helped develop tangential technologies for in the past—he can't do a goddamn thing.

He's as helpless as he's ever been, and it hurts so much worse than all the times he's almost lost Steve or almost died himself, because this is _Peter_ , and he promised the kid on that first day that he'd never let anything bad happen to him, that his daddies were superheroes and that meant he was the safest kid in, like, the whole universe, because there was _nothing_ they wouldn't do for him and now he's being forced to break his promise.

  
He's still trying to think of a way to fix this, thinking of ever more insane possibilities and rejecting them just as fast because he's not going to kill Peter trying to save him.

He shifts the gauntlet-encased hand he has lying on the bed, Peter's thin, frail-looking fingers sitting limp in the palm over the repulsor. God, this can't be _happening._

His joints ache because even with all the advancements in medicine, he's still old and right now he's feeling it more than ever. Not moving for hours and consuming too much caffeine and not enough food, even with everyone trying to feed him constantly, he's sore and stiff and tired and he would love to just go to bed and sleep forever, except he can't even do that because sleep brings with it nightmares and his reality sucks so badly right now that he doesn't need to chase self-inflicted torture and watch the future he's trying to deny play out in a hundred different ways, each one of them worse.

  
He looks away from Peter's hand, gaze flicking between the displays, that terrible number of the muted dosimeter creeping higher and higher, the heartbeat monitor that is too fast or too slow, but never just right, and the sight of Peter, washed out, skinnier than ever, skin and bones from where Tony's sitting, his forearms bandaged. They're not bleeding anymore, but they wounds are still there, and they're still seeping goop that hardens and causes Peter pain if they don't stay on top of cleaning it out regularly, which they'd found out the hard fucking way.

  
Peter's muscles still twitch and spasm, like someone has a low-grade electrical current that they're randomly hitting him with, like a sadistic son of a bitch.

He's stopped recognizing people and he's not always sure where he is, and according to the thermal imager, his brain is quite literally cooking in his skull, but all the ice packs and cold blankets and the freezing temperature of the room aren't doing anything but keep that at a steady 104.6.

On top of that, he's on oxygen now, has been for two days, since he had what looked a helluva lot like an asthma attack, and he's got so many IV's in his hand, Bruce is talking about a rotation between hands to keep from causing permanent scarring.

But now even with all that, he's sleeping peacefully at the moment and that is something Tony can't put into words, how relieved he is at that.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, really, and he regrets it as soon as he wakes up and feels the way his already stiff muscles have petrified.

He creaks and groans. " _Ow_. JARVIS, the hydraulics need work, remind me after Peter wakes up again," he mumbles, throat dry and rasping. Then his forehead creases. "Speaking of, what time is it? Gimme the display, J."

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS murmurs.

It reads 4:24 PM.

  
He jerks up a little, reaching to scrub at his face only to realize he can't because of the damn mask. He couldn't have slept for that long, Peter would have woken him up by now.

Why the hell hasn't Peter woken him up by now? He looks at Peter and sees that he's still sleeping peacefully, but that's not reassuring, not reassuring at _all_ because he's not moving.

  
Kid's been restless since before they brought him in here, and more so the last few days, but he's not moving now and he _hasn't_ in the time Tony was out. Not so much as an inch.

With the fever unbroken and the breathing still raspy and his pulse far, far too slow…

Something's wrong.

The suddenness of the realization takes Tony's breath away and he's on his feet before he even thinks about moving, leaning over the bed and shaking Peter's shoulder, and nothing, not a blink, not a nose wrinkle, not a huff of air, nothing, he's totally unresponsive.

  
" _BRUCE, STEVE!"_ he howls, gripping Peter's shoulders to lift him up and shake him but Peter just flops back, mouth open, and he has to be feeling this, but he's not doing anything.

  
Steve slides into the room and Bruce pushes him in and follows and Steve has to pull Tony back so Bruce can get in and confirm with his fingers what JARVIS is saying. He turns and he looks absolutely terrified, and Tony's stomach drops out, and then they're being shooed out and Bruce is calling for Betty and telling JARVIS to run some kind of scan and oh god what's happened.

He's not dead, Tony can see he's not dead, so what… what's wrong _now_?

~ * ~

 

Tony sits on one of the lab stools, gaze fixed and staring at nothing. Steve's on another right next to him, pressed up against him from hip to shoulder, hands folded and his head dropped forward.

"He's slipped into a coma," Bruce says quietly.

Steve takes a breath and then another and another, each coming more jagged than the last and not helping at all. He lurches off of the stool, jarring Tony as he goes and he doesn't give a damn. It feels like his skin is too tight, prickling and seething. He barrels out of the MedBay, nearly breaks the button on the elevator, and bursts out into the gym, panting, his hands curled into fists. He beelines to the punching bag and with a yell, knocks it halfway across the room, sand spilling out in a vee.

He clenches his fists so hard he feels the bones creak and puts up another bag with shaking hands. He goes at it hard, each blow rippling up his un-taped arms. By the time he busts the second bag, his wrists and knuckles ache. He heaves up another bag and keeps going.

One after another, he slings them up and beats them into useless heaps of junk, until his knuckles are split and bleeding, arms throbbing all the way up to his shoulders. The last bag splits open and he screams until he runs out of breath.

Then, heaving with exertion, he drops to his knees, then forward onto his elbows, covering his head with his arms.

He rocks back onto his heels and drives one fist into the mats. There's a loud ripping as it splits, the floorboard beneath cracking and splintering. " _Why?_ "

It feels like he's having an asthma attack, his chest tight and his lungs sticking in his chest. Obviously he's not, that's impossible because of the serum, and that only makes him angrier because why the _hell_ hasn't the serum done the same for Peter? He doesn't deserve this, not for wanting to help people.

"Do you feel better now?" a voice asks and he lifts his head enough to look over the curve of his bicep at Natasha standing a few yards away, her arms crossed delicately. Her expression is somber and sympathetic.

Steve forces himself to look away, rather than giving her the sneer trying to take over his mouth and grunts, "No."

Natasha sidles a little closer. "You're angry," she observes.

"You're damn right I'm angry," he snaps back. His shoulders tense as he bites back more.

"Peter did something foolish, it's only natural to be angry."

"I'm not— I'm not angry at _Peter_ ," he says, appalled by the idea. "He's just a _kid_. He wants to make a difference."

"Tony?"

Steve snorts. "Sure, because Tony can control what our headstrong teenager does."

"Then who?" Natasha asks.

"I don't know!" Steve snaps. "Everyone! Nobody! Myself—God— _I don't know_. He's just a kid, he doesn't deserve this for making one stupid decision. I don't understand why this is happening. Haven't we been through enough?"

"Then what are you going to do about it?"

Something in her tone looses his barely restrained fury, and it rushes over him like a tsunami. When the wash of red draws back, he's crossed the room, fist flying toward her face.

But Natasha dodges the blow easily, hands grabbing hold of his wrist and she uses his momentum to hurl him over her shoulder. He lands on his back hard enough to take his breath away momentarily and a second later she's pinned him, one hand planted just above his heart, and one knee pressed pointedly into his groin.

She leans down, green eyes sharp. " _What_ are you going to do about it?" she demands, enunciating very carefully.

Steve slams his head back onto the mat out of sheer frustration and yells, "I don't _know._ There's nothing I _can_ do. _"_ He starts to try and roll her off and Natasha bears down, forcing him back. "I can't do anything, Natasha; what do you _want_ from me? I've got nothing. Peter's dying and there's not a God-damned thing I can do about it."

Natasha opens her mouth to reply, but before she can speak, JARVIS says, "I'm sorry, Sir, but Director Fury is on the line. He says you're needed at Headquarters immediately."

" _What?_ " Steve sits up abruptly, Natasha moving easily off of him to kneel at his hip, a small frown creasing her face.

"He says it's of great importance, Sir. Apparently, the Fjin have moved earlier than expected."

Steve starts to get to his feet and Natasha catches him around the wrist, staring at him intensely. "Steve, this isn't going to help, you know," she says.

He meets her gaze, grim. "Maybe not, but what the hell else have I got?"

~ * ~

Tony spins on his heel, holding one finger up and Steve knows he's about to get an ear-full. It still never fails to amaze him how much attitude Tony can pack in to the simplest gestures. "No. No, absolutely not, it ain't happening. And furthermore, _fuck no,"_ Tony says, his eyes fever-bright, his lip trembling slightly.

Steve sighs. Normally he'd bristle at Tony's entitled, dramatic BS, but he's exhausted. He's _worn out_ and heartsick and Tony's childish tantrums are too much to deal with, even if he understands why Tony's doing it. Steve considers fighting him for a brief moment and decides what little energy he has is better spent. "Fine," he says. "I'll let Fury know. Do whatever you want."

Tony's jaw is already firmed with a snippy retort, but that makes him falter. His jaw goes loose, his indignantly pointed finger sinking. "Um," he says, now uncertain. He rubs the pads of his fingers together and shifts his weight. "...really? That's it?"

Steve shrugs; it's a half-hearted gesture. "I'm not going to make you do anything, Tony."

Tony snorts. "Since when?"

That's fair, but Steve just tells him, "I have to go."

"Wait," Tony says and Steve hears him start forward. "Hang on."

"What, Tony?" Steve asks wearily, pressing his thumb and his index finger into the corners of his eyes. The sound of his footsteps stop and Steve can feel him hesitate before he feels Tony's fingers curling around the inside of his elbow.

"Hey," he says softly. "Steve. I'm sorry."

Steve presses harder, a sharp, hot burning starting at the backs of his eyes. He presses until it hurts and he just wants Tony to shut up, he has somewhere he has to _be._ He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to get out and do. Why can't Tony just _shut up?_

But he doesn't; Tony never does. "I know I've been kind of a jerk the last few days and I shouldn't be taking it out on you, but Steve—"

A breath catches slightly on its way out of Steve's chest despite his best efforts and Tony goes very still behind him.

"...Steve?"

"I'm fine," he replies tersely and pulls his hand away from his eyes. "I have to go," he repeats and ignores the way it feels like he's swallowed broken glass.

"Like hell you are," Tony says and grips his arm harder, tugging insistently. "This is fucking with you as much as it is me."

" _Tony_ ," Steve says and he can't stop how sharp it sounds. "If you don't want to go that's fine, but I need to."

"Then go!" Tony tells him. "You and I both know I can't stop you! If you have to go, then go!"

But Steve doesn't. His chest is rising and falling visibly with every breath and there are people waiting on him, _counting_ on him, but he lets Tony pull him back around this time when he tugs. Tony's hands move up his shoulders to his neck, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Steve's neck and Steve takes one sharp, faltering breath, letting his head drop onto Tony's shoulder. His arms move around Tony, holding on and Tony's hands tighten around the back of his neck in response. The heat of his palms makes something sharp and hard inside Steve melt away. It hits him that this is the first time he's laid so much as a finger on Tony in days, the most he's said to him in as long and the loneliness he's been struggling to shake off suddenly makes sense. He breathes in Tony's familiar scent—metal and grease and something else he's never been able to place—and presses his face into Tony's neck, feels his pulse against the bridge of his nose, the heat of his skin on his cheeks.

Tony makes a little breathless noise in Steve's ear and he realizes he's holding on too tightly. "Sorry," he mutters and eases up a little. Tony lets out an amused sound, turning his head so he can rest his forehead on Steve's shoulder, the roughness of his cheek against Steve's jaw.

"Missed you, too," he murmurs and a lump catches in Steve's throat as Tony's lips press against the sensitive skin at the base of his ear. "Sorry I've been so—"

"No," Steve says. "Not for this. Not when it's because Peter—"

"Yeah, I know," Tony says, "but I could have taken a break. I mean, come on, I haven't so much as ogled your ass in three days. _Three days,_ Steve."

Steve breathes out a laugh and runs his hand down Tony's back, surprised by how much comfort the feel of the familiar muscles against his palm alone provides. "Actually fessing up to working too hard? Now I've seen everything."

"Ha ha," Tony mutters, his breath sinking through Steve's shirt, warm and damp against his skin.

Steve tucks his nose under the line of Tony's jaw and says quietly, "I know you're doing everything you can. But I'm scared, Tony. Terrified. What if you can't—" His voice catches in his throat and he feels Tony swallow hard, his fingers tightening.

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Yeah, I've uh," he clears his throat. "I've been thinking about that a lot. I don't think I could— If—" He breathes out sharply into Steve's shoulder and shakes his head. "Fuck, Steve, I've never been so scared in my life. If he— Fuck. _Fuck."_

Yeah. Steve knows.

He holds on for another minute and then reluctantly starts to draw back. "I have to... I need to go, Tony."

Tony stares down between their bodies, nodding. "Yeah. I know you do." His eyes skate around the edges of the room. "I should go with you—"

Steve shakes his head and sighs, curling his hand around Tony's neck. "No. We don't need you—"

"You always need me," Tony mutters and the corner of Steve's mouth pulls up.

"—and I think it will make both of us feel better if you're here with Peter."

Tony looks up at him. "You're sure?"

Steve nods.

"Okay," Tony says and squeezes his arm. "You stay safe, got it?"

"I'll do my best," Steve agrees and then Tony kisses him, long and lingering. Their hands remain intertwined until the just before elevator doors close.

~ * ~

On the Helicarrier, Steve dresses in the more subdued version of the suit he wears for the world-saving missions like this, which require a less...flashy presence. Natasha and Clint's uniforms remain largely the same, though Clint's had to put up with the addition of sleeves—it's going to be cold in Finland.

In the weather report included in the briefing, they'd learned they were heading in right alongside a snowstorm.

"Captain Rogers, report to the flight deck. Captain Rogers, to the flight deck."

They must be nearing Helsinki.

Steve looks down at the phone in his hand, displaying the last few texts from Tony. He curls his hand around it, covering the screen, and switches the display off. He slides it into a pocket and heads for the flight deck.

Natasha, Clint, and Coulson are already there, waiting, when he arrives.

"Sorry," he says. "I was..."

No explanation is forthcoming and Steve doesn't bother trying to come up with one. What does it matter? He can feel Clint and Natasha's eyes on him and he can imagine what they're thinking.

"Agent Barton, Agent Romanova, why don't you begin preflight while I have a word with the captain?"

Steve hears them board the Quinjet and looks up to meet Coulson's gaze head on.

"Agent Coulson?"

Coulson steps toward him. "Steve," he says, and an ugly surge of resentment seethes up in Steve's chest, the taste of gunmetal at the back of his throat.

"Don't," he snaps.

Coulson's expression hardens. "Steve," he repeats, deliberately. "We need you on this. We've been waiting for this chance for a long, long time—"

"I'm aware," Steve says, trying not to grit his teeth. "Do you have a point, sir?"

"—and I know the timing here is the precise opposite of ideal, but I need to know that you can put that aside and do your job."

Steve thinks about that, because Coulson's right. If he can't focus, he could easily get Clint or Natasha killed and that's the last thing he wants.

"Let me worry about Tony and Peter," Coulson says, gentler.

Steve looks up at him and after a slight hesitation, nods. "You'll tell me if something...if something happens."

Coulson's mouth pulls into a small, sad smile. "No. I won't." He pauses and then adds, "But I will do everything in my power to make sure that they are as they are, or better, when you return."

Steve nods and stands a little straighter. It's almost a relief to submerge himself in the mission to come. "We'll report in at 0700." He turns to leave.

"Captain?"

"Yes?" he asks, turning back. Coulson's hand is outstretched, palm up.

"I'd like to take your phone, please."

Steve blinks at him and feels his gut give a little twist. "Oh. I—"

"I'm only asking to be polite," Coulson goes on.

Steve's mouth pinches, hand moving to cover the pocket where he stowed the device.

"You have to leave it behind, Steve. You'll be distracted and you know it."

Grudgingly, Steve slips the phone out and deposits it into Coulson's hand. "I feel like I've just been reprimanded by a teacher."

A smile plucks at the corner of Coulson's mouth. "You're never too old to learn something. Good luck, Captain."

Steve nods and tries not to feel guilty as he walks away from his husband and son.

~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~

Tony pulls his phone out and stares at it for what feels like the thousandth time. His last text didn't really require a response, but he's been expecting one anyway.

Tony 7:48AM 10.22.39

what's up buttercup?

He fiddles with the screen, scrolling down like maybe a response will appear if he messes around long enough.

When it doesn't, he sets the phone down beside his keyboard and waves a hand over it, lighting up the keys. A screen pops up in front of him, windows expanding across it containing all the information about Peter's vitals, everything they've collected since they started monitoring him, and the notes Natasha and Clint had managed to persuade Scabel into giving up.

Peter is still and silent beyond the windows of the isolation room, now sealed to keep the radiation contained.

He's still alive, but it's a bittersweet relief.

There's no way of knowing how long that will hold, and the uncertainty is almost worse.

Glancing at the time, Tony realizes it's been nearly six hours since Steve left. He checks the phone one more time, sighs, and then pushes it aside to focus on the notes. There's got to be something here that can help.

~ * ~

 

The building is empty.

They've been in Helsinki for all of two hours, getting in and locating the Fjin's front. It turned out to be a tiny office building on the north side of town.

As soon as they'd gone through the door, Steve had known they wouldn't find anyone. But they go through the motions, checking each room, and doing it quick and quiet as they can.

But the search had turned up a whole lot of nothing.

"They've cleared out," Clint says, scowling at the push pins strewn about on the carpet from someone's hurried removal of the things covering the cork board on the wall.

"Pretty recently, looks like," Natasha says, holstering her gun.

" _Dammit!_ "

Steve slams a fist into the wall beside the doorway. "This was our last good lead!"

Natasha levels a hard look at him. "Then we'll find another one. This isn't the first time we've run into a setback."

"I know!" Steve shouts, whirling around. He deflates when he sees his teammates wary expressions. "I know. Sorry. God, sorry."

"It's a non-issue," Clint says. "But it looks like this is going to take longer than we expected. If that's going to be a problem..."

"No," Steve says. "It won't. I can do this." He takes a second to breathe deeply, looking around the room. Okay. He won't be going back to Peter or Tony anytime soon. That's...that's all right, he can deal with that. He just needs to get his head in the game. _Really_ sink himself into the mission this time. Phil had been right to take his phone. Of course. Phil is always, aggravatingly, right. "Okay, split up," he says. "Search everywhere. There's got to be a hint, some kind of clue to where they've gone. You don't pack up this quick and make a clean get away."

~ * ~

 

"He was supposed to be back within twenty-four hours!" Tony yells, while a holographic Phil Coulson stares judgingly at him from the middle of the lab, arms crossed. "It's been almost three days!"

"Yes," he says, drawing out the word. "He _was_ , but then something _happened,_ as is wont to when one is in the field—"

"I don't need sass from you right now, Agent," Tony snaps.

Coulson sighs, arms unwinding. "The lead that turned up was a bust. The Fjin had cleared out by the time they arrived. Fortunately, they were able to find a poorly discarded envelope with a partial address for another base in the country. _Un_ fortunately, that base is in a small northern town called Kuusamo and the blizzard rolling through eastern Europe has made travel difficult, at best. Believe me, Stark, I want him home with you at least as much as you do."

Tony snorts. "Not likely."

"I'm doing the best I can," he says. "We have to find the device before the Fjin can complete it. This is the closest we've come to it's location in months."

"Yeah, I get it, whatever. When you talk to him, will you ask him why he can't send a goddamn text once in awhile? A 'Hey, letting you know I'm not dead yet' would be appreciated."

Coulson winces. "I confiscated his phone."

Tony's head snaps up. "You _what?"_

The look Coulson gives him is mulish. "I confiscated his phone. If he was capable of texting and talking to you with everything that's going on, he'd never be able to fully focus on anything he needs to right now."

"You _cut him off?_ So I can't—"

"It's for his own good. He needs to be able to block out—"

"Block out what?" Tony snarls. " _His dying son?"_

"Yes," Coulson says icily.

Tony slams his hand down on the keyboard, ending the call abruptly. He sits there for several long minutes, hands curled into fists, breathing hard. Coulson had _no fucking right_ to—and without _telling him,_ are they _serious?_

His eyes snap up as Bruce steps through the lab door. "Hey," he says, "are they going to be back soon?"

"No," Tony spits out and Bruce looks up, his eyebrows rising.

"No?"

"The base was—they had cleared out," Tony explains, the sharp, bright fire of his anger dampening as his brain pulls up the information. "They figured out where to, but there's a blizzard or something."

"Oh," Bruce says. "Well, that's not the first time. It's unfortunate now of all times though..."

"Coulson confiscated Steve's fucking phone," Tony says. "Can you believe that? He's a grown man!"

"He's just trying to keep them safe," Bruce reminds him gently.

"Well—yeah," Tony says, and drops his eyes, reaching for the phone on the lab table. He's been checking it every half hour, hoping to hear something from Steve, anything, and the damn thing's been sitting in Coulson's locker the whole goddamn time.

"I'm sure it doesn't stop him from thinking of you," Bruce says, touching his shoulder. Then: "Come on, I've been looking at some of the test studies Scabel did and I've got an idea I want to run by you."

Tony glances at the screen of his phone one last time and then drops it in a drawer. Fine. He's been cut off from Steve before. He can handle this. He and Bruce will fix Peter and it will be a nice homecoming surprise.

~ * ~

 

Clint and Natasha meet Steve for breakfast when they wake up in Kuusamo. Clint squints at him, looking as roughshod as he usually does in the morning. "Did you even sleep?"

"No, I couldn't," Steve replies and a funny expression goes over both their faces. He's been dying to talk about this for hours though, so he plows ahead, spreading out the hunks of charred map and dossiers he's been scrutinizing all night. "I think there's something here, but I just can't put my finger on it. You guys have gotta help me out. I thought about waking you, but I've got a good feeling about this one and I wanted you guys to be ready to go."

Natasha gives Clint a long look and then sits down at the table, Clint joining them a moment later. "Let's see what you've got here," she says.

Clint flags down the lady running the place and orders a coffee.

"Now, see, look here," Steve says, shuffling through the papers to find one of the maps that had actually had a few faint pencil marks still visible in one charred region not too far from where they are now. "I think this in particular is a direct link to wherever they've gone. And then this—" He hunts up one of the scorched printed pages where he's circled a line in red. "—if you treat these two things as related then it's possible this line here is talking about—thank you," he says, flashing a smile at the woman as she brings them three fresh mugs of coffee.

"My pleasure," she says, patting Steve's arm. "My grandad fought with the Allies and he always spoke highly of you."

Steve blinks up at her. "You know who I am?"

She huffs. "Was it supposed to be a secret?"

Steve's face heats up in chagrin and he shoots a dirty look at Clint when he tries to hide a laugh with a cough.

The woman taps the map. "I assume you're here looking for those unsavories in the red? Several of them have been seen going into one of the fjords a couple miles north of town."

"North, again," Clint mutters. "Why is it always north? I'm freezing my dick off."

Steve shoots him a quelling look. "And you can tell us which one?"

She beams at him and pats his cheek. "Of course I can."

~ * ~

 

The third time Tony nods off looking into the microscope, Bruce sighs and says, "All right, that's enough, Tony. You've got to get some sleep."

Tony scrubs at his face. "No, come on, the bed's been empty for days, I hate that." God, does he ever. He'd never expected to hate having the whole bed to himself, but somewhere around their three year anniversary Steve had been gone for nearly a month and Tony had discovered that all the empty space _bothered_ him.

"You don't have to sleep there," Bruce says, "but you do have to sleep. It's been nearly a week since Steve left and catnaps in the chair by Peter's bed aren't nearly enough to sustain you this long. Go."

Tony groans, but gets to his feet when Bruce pulls on his arm and shuffles off toward the door. "You suck."

"I love you, too, Tony."

Tony flips him the bird.

He slumps in one corner of the elevator on the ride up to the penthouse, but once he's in the bed it's as terrible as predicted. He groans and says, "JARVIS."

"Yes, sir."

"Where's Thor. Get me Thor."

"Certainly, sir."

After a long pause in which Tony wishes he could just fucking _sleep_ , he hears, "Tony?"

"Hey, yeah, Thor, buddy, are you busy canoodling?"

"Jane is working in the labs today," Thor informs him. "What do you require?"

"I need a bed buddy," he says and knows he sounds pathetic, but God help him, he doesn't care.

"Ah," Thor says. "I will be there in a moment."

He hangs up and Tony sighs, and kicks off his shoes.

"You might be more comfortable if you were to undress, sir," JARVIS points out.

"Shut up, J,"he mutters. But his jeans are poking him and he finally admits to himself that's not a terrible idea, so he worms his way out of them without getting up. They're flopping onto the floor about the time Thor knocks on the door.

"May I enter?"

"Yeah, come in. Hurry up, I'm beat."

Thor's face is crinkled with a smile when he steps inside, a book in one hand and his phone in the other.

Tony yawns. "Got—enough entertainment there?"

"Aye, I believe so," Thor says and stoops next to the bed to remove his shoes. He spends another minute gathering up pillows to pile against the headboard and Tony's already started to drift.

"S'rry 'f I k'ck you," he mumbles into the pillow. "Nigh'mare central la'ely."

"Sleep, Tony."

It's not the same, but it's better.

Tony sleeps.

~

 

"On my count," Steve says, hefting the rifle in his hands and taking a breath. If all goes well, this could be the turning point. They've been hunting the Fjin and their plasma weapon prototype for nearly a year now, butt it's a small operation and that makes it tough to ferret them out.

"Three."

A group like Hydra, numbering the hundreds, if not thousands, presents it's own challenges, but finding their bases is not usually one of them. It's hard to conceal hundreds of people with a now-infamous symbol pinned on their lapels for very long.

Concealing less than a dozen is considerably easier.

"Two."

But inside this little ice-covered structure they may have finally hit the nail on the head.

"One."

Success is so close Steve' can taste it, like chocolate, thick and sweet on his tongue.

"Mark!"

Steve kicks in the back door.

It splinters the frame, hitting the floor inside with a sharp bang. Three startled yells follow and Steve flings the shield through the gaping doorway. One of the men goes down when it smashes into his sternum, hurling him back into the far wall.

"Surrender now!" Steve barks at the others. The blonde sneers at him.

"No chance in hell, Captain."

"Fine," Steve retorts, "have it your way."

He lunges forward and puts him down with one swing of his fist.

"How about you?" he asks the remaining member. From the other side of the wall he can hear crashing, the thud of bodies hitting wood. The other man can hear it too.

He looks nervous. Steve smiles.

Stepping to the side, he scoops up the shield, eyes on the guy the whole way. He breaks out in a sweat when Steve's got it on his arm again.

Then something slams into the door.

It bursts open, a body tumbling through, sprawling across the floor. The dark head is bloodied and the figure's obviously unconscious.

Natasha leans through a moment later, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Sorry to interrupt," she says, and grabs the man by the collar, hauling him back through the doorway and shutting the door behind them.

"Okay, okay, okay!" the guy says. "I get it, I surrender. Please don't give me a concussion—I get migraines."

Steve slings the shield onto his back and pulls out a handful of zip ties from his belt. "You should get that checked out."

~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~

 

_Please,_ Tony types later as he finishes an email he's blasting to just about everyone in the known world, _please. Send this to anyone you know, anyone you trust. Somebody please help me save my kid._

He hits send and then buries his hands in his hair, breathing through the shudders coursing through him. He can't pretend that he's got a handle on it anymore. Peter's dying and there's nothing he can do but sit here and wait, and hope to god someone knows something, can think of something, anything that will help save his little boy.

He'd do anything, give anything, if it meant Peter would be okay. He'd go back to that godforsaken cave in Afghanistan for the rest of his life if it meant Peter could have his.

Every stupid, awful thing he's ever done in his life was building up to this, to Peter, so he can't be dying. He _can't._

Peter has the chance to do what Tony should have been doing right from the start—helping people, privatizing fucking—fucking _galactic_ peace. He's so goddamn smart and every inch Steve's son, determined to do his part. So he _can't_ be dying. It wouldn't be fair.

The room doesn't have to be dark at night. Peter's in a fucking coma, it's not like it's going to _wake him up_. Besides, it's unusual for someone _not_ to be in the lab—Tony's noticed they tend to slip out as soon as he shows up—but Bruce has been turning the lights off at night anyway, hanging his hat on one last shred of normalcy.

There's a big red line of tape arcing across the floor from about a foot away from the left wall to about the same on the right. There's a Geiger counter sitting another foot outside that line, which is there because not only is Peter's body breaking down, he's also so fucking radioactive now that that's as far as Tony's allowed to go.

His son is dying and Tony can't even enter the room unless he wants to risk winding up sick and dying too.

The Geiger counter is quiet and Tony steps up to the line, pokes at it with his toes. It would be easy. It would be _painful_ , but Tony's been there, done that. He can deal with the physical pain. But this blade in his chest he can't shake, the way it _burns_ when he thinks about not having Peter anymore...

There aren't words.

He scuffs the tape with his toe and then sniffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, and draws back.

~

Tony sniffles and swipes one grease-stained wrist under his nose. His eyes are burning from exhaustion and because he's lost all control of his goddamn tear ducts since Peter's birth. It's insane how a few days of being a little short on shut-eye coupled with Steve's absence and Peter being...can make him all...ugh.

But it's been seven _days_ and they haven't made a single fucking breakthrough with Peter and he's never felt so useless in his entire life. He wants Steve to drag him out of the workshop and lay on top of him. He wants Peter to come down and fall asleep at the lab table to his right. He wants to _fix this,_ goddammit _._

There's a shush of air moving as the door opens behind him and Tony jerks around, blinking rapidly.

Pepper tilts her head, expression soft and achingly sad.

"Hey," he says, ignoring how thick his voice sounds. "What are you doing here? It's three o'clock in the morning."

"You _know_ that?" Pepper says, pained.

Tony huffs, out of his mouth because he's congested, gross. He taps his fingers on the lab table and then glances up at her and admits, "I'm counting hours, Pep. One seventy-two, in case you were curious."

"Oh, Tony," she says and moves forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

"I just—fuck."

Pepper presses a kiss to his temple and Tony buries his face in her shoulder.

"I thought— I thought knowing he was dying was worse, but, god, I was _wrong,_ Pepper. I'm afraid to go to sleep because I'm _sure_ that will be when it happens, when he finally—"

Pepper hushes him, stroking his hair. "You don't know that."

"I don't _not_ know it either. And Steve is gone and I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

He's not expecting her to have an answer, and she doesn't. She just shakes her head and holds on. "He'll be home soon, Tony, he has to be, right?"

"God, I hope so," he breathes.

She stays up with him until dawn, breaking down in tears around four-thirty and dragging him along with her. He still feels stranded, lost and isolated, but with this thin string, the tiniest safety line linking him to Pepper. He clings to it, gripping tight with both hands.

~ * ~

 

Natasha's wearing a demure skirt suit with a pale pink ruffled blouse, her eyes made large and luminous by carefully applied make-up. She steps into the interrogation room, bubble-gum pink lips smiling sweetly and Steve shakes his head in wonder.

It never fails to amaze him that this works. It seems so obvious to him, so clearly contrived and so patently _wrong_ , but he's seen her put on this show for years and in all that time, only a few dozen men have seen through the ruse. It's...well, it's disgusting, is what it is, that these men think because Natasha's a woman that she's weaker and more vulnerable than they are.

He does enjoy watching her prove them wrong.

The charade takes awhile, because Natasha's a master with the patience of a saint. She takes it slow, feeding the Fjin agent subtle hints that make her seem harmless, in need of a man's magnanimous assistance. She strings him along, setting him up right where she needs him and then, with all the lethal grace of a cobra, strikes.

Two minutes later, the agent's gaping at her like a guppy fish, sputtering.

Natasha graces him with one more sugar-sweet smile and leaves.

Steve grins at her as she closes the door behind her. "Always a pleasure to watch you work, Agent Romanova."

She smiles, but it's unusually subdued, considering the magnitude of the information she's just gleaned for them. "Come on," she says. "Let's see this through to the end."

~ * ~

 

"We're not gonna fix this, are we?" Tony asks, at one-hundred and eighty-four hours. He stares down at his hands, numb with the realization.

"Not any time soon," Bruce murmurs, voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry, Tony."

"Not your fault," Tony says, shaking his head.

He doesn't say anything else for a long time.

~ * ~

 

"Congratulations," Fury says, when they're back on the Helicarrier. "Thanks to you, the plasma device prototype has been collected and destroyed—not a minute too soon, it seems. Our people say it was a few tweaks shy of operational. Good work, you three."

"Thank you, sir," Steve replies and hears Clint and Natasha's voices in chorus with his own.

Fury nods and then waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Now get out."

They do as they're told, all walking more easily now that the weight of the world is off their shoulders. "Thank you," Steve says to them as they head for the mess.

Clint elbows Natasha and says, "You'd think he'd've stopped doing that by now."

Natasha's mouth curls in a small smile. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"Ha ha," Steve says dryly. "I'm serious. You were both on point. We had a couple serious set backs and you handled them all with grace."

"And beauty," Clint says, fluttering his eyelashes. "Don't forget beauty."

Steve laughs.

For some reason, that makes Clint's expression grow somber. "Hey," he says, voice suddenly quiet, "are you—"

Natasha digs her fingers into his ribs, making him yelp. "Enough talk. A little birdy told me they've got _blini_ today. Let's go before they're gone."

"Woman's serious about her dessert," Clint mutters and Steve grins.

"Lead on, soldier."

~ * ~

 

"... _ir... sir..._ Sir."

The abrupt sensation of falling sends Tony shooting upright, his heart rate spiking through the roof as he throws out his hands, grabbing onto the lab table to keep from winding up on his face on the floor. "Wh— JARV— Oh, god." His stomach plunges to his toes. "Peter?!"

"No, Sir, Captain Rogers."

For an instant it feels like every cell in his body has frozen. "Steve?" he whispers.

"Is coming _home_ , Sir," JARVIS says, rushed and slightly horrified sounding. "They will be landing in approximately three minutes."

The rush of relief is so powerful Tony's vision grays out briefly. Then he realizes: _Steve's home._

He lurches off the stool and nearly trips into a prototype, catching himself on U's arm. U chirps at him and helps him pull himself back upright. "Thanks, buddy," he breathes, patting the robot's arm and taking off at a run.

He slams into the wall of the elevator as he boards, the doors closing instantly behind him. "Bruce?" he just about yells and a second later, Bruce replies, _"Tony? What's going on?"_

"Give—give me a status update. Peter—is he—"

" _Unchanged_ ," Bruce says, worry leeching into his tone. "Tony—"

God, he hasn't even been down there in—has it been more than a day? Jesus, he's a terrible father. What the hell is wrong with him?

"Thanks," he says and hangs up on Bruce, watching the numbers climb closer, his heart in his throat.

He bolts from the elevator the second it arrives, sprinting out to the landing pad where the Quinjet is touching down. " _Steve?"_ he shouts, and he sounds like a fucking lunatic, there's no way Steve can hear him over the sound of the turbines from inside the jet. He smacks into the glass separating him from the pad with a _thoonk_ and spends several interminable seconds battling to get the stupid goddamn thing open.

The ramp touches the pad as he staggers out into the open air, wind whipping his hair around. "Steve!"

He, Natasha, and Clint all look up to see him, Steve's face going slack with surprise.

" _Steve!"_ he yells again and hurls himself at him.

Steve catches him, of course, of course he does, arms closing around Tony's waist, pressing into his back and it's the sweetest thing he's ever felt. "Tony?"

"Oh, thank fuck, you're home," Tony says and squeezes him tighter.

~

 

Steve can feel his mouth hanging open and he should do something about that ( _you'll catch flies that way,_ he hears his mother say), but he can't because Tony's clinging to him and babbling and he _forgot._

He _forgot_ Tony. Forgot their _son._

Tony's breathing is picking up, he suddenly realizes and he puts a hand over the back of Tony's head and says, "Tony. _Tony,_ breathe."

He does, sucking in a gulp of air like he'd forgotten how, his fingers clenched tight in Steve's clothes. "Steve, Steve, god, Steve," he's saying, over and over. It makes Steve feel awful; he's obviously been through hell this whole time while he was off—off forgetting them completely, forgetting Peter was—

His grip grows tight on Tony. "Peter?" he asks. "Tony!" he barks, "Is Peter—"

"Alive, alive," Tony bleats. "I couldn't fix him, some fucking genius I am, but he's still alive, thank God, I guess, for that."

Steve pulls him close again, a lump crystalizing in his throat. "I'm sorry, Tony, I forgot. They told me I needed to focus and I _forgot,_ oh my god."

Tony lets out a hysterical little laugh. "You did? You lucky son of a bitch. Doesn't matter what I do, it's all I can think about."

Steve feels sick. "How could I do that—to you—to _Peter_."

Tony kisses him, awkwardly at the corner of one eye. "You compartmentalize like an ace. God, Steve." He kisses Steve again, forehead this time, and then below one eye, the other cheek bone, the corner of his mouth. "I missed you."

He can't say the same, so he buries his face in Tony's shoulder and breathes apologies into his skin, trying desperately to make up for lost time.

~

 

Steve sits at Peter's bedside night and day, hardly moves at all. If he shifts it's to go from staring at Peter's lax features, fingers gingerly stroking his arm, to hunching over his clasped hands praying, sometimes silently, sometimes a desperate, fervent whisper.

He's doing that now, lips barely moving, words impossible to make out. Tony doesn't know what to do. He's exhausted every other option. Maybe...

"Can I— I want to—" Tony's grief-roughened voice fails him and he gestures at Steve's hands, folded together so tightly the tendons on the backs of his hands stand out in sharp relief.

Steve looks at him, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed, and nods, unwinds his hands to beckon Tony forward.

Swallowing hard, he edges a chair closer, angled to face Steve and sits in it, gratefully taking Steve's hands when he reaches out. They lock together and Tony bows forward, the way he's seen Steve do. Steve presses their foreheads together.

"How do I...?" Tony whispers.

"Just ask."

Tony closes his eyes and prays.

~

 

It's just after 2100, the lights in the room down low; there are a couple of desk lamps on in the lab on the other side of the glass, plus a couple of monitors, and some colored blinky lights on the machinery around Peter's bed. Clint's about halfway through his watch, not that they've set up an official _watch_ , it just happens that every four hours or so, someone else comes in to see how Peter's doing and there's only two chairs, one of which is occupied by Steve 99.9% of the time. He's been especially hard to move since they got back from the mission, guilt pouring off him in a deluge.

Now's actually part of that .1% where Steve's not trying to become one with the chair. Instead, Tony's the one holding it down. He's sitting with the chair turned to face the bed, flush up against the side, his legs tangled in the mess of supports and equipment underneath it and his elbows propped on the mattress next to Peter's chest.

Peter himself is curled up on his side and Tony's got his fingers threaded through Peter's, their palms resting together. Tony's other hand is buried in his own hair, exhausted, shadowed eyes focused on Peter's face.

Clint hasn't seen him sit this still in—well, ever, probably, and it's taking a lot of effort to keep his eyes on the brightly colored Angry Birds app on his phone. Tony's not...Tony gets weird when people notice him being pretty much anything but snarky and in control, and he's dealing with a lot of shit with Peter being sick like he is, so Clint's trying to be considerate. As much as he knows how. Hence, Angry Birds and way more focus than a couple of obnoxious green pigs really merit. It helps that the physics in the game are a joke, which pisses Clint off because that's the kind of stuff he uses to do his job and not being able to aim a bunch of goddamn animated birds is embarrassing.

It seems to be working though, 'cause Tony's focus is on Peter instead of his game face.

That means Clint can see the raw fear, the floundering helplessness, and the way his giant brain is working overtime trying to figure out how to solve this. Clint's not sure there is anything he can do and that thought makes his stomach do a slow, sick roll.

His eyes flick to Peter and then back to the pigs—laughing at him now, the little green bastards—and he swears at them because out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony closing his eyes and drawing Peter's knuckles up to his mouth, whispering something Clint really doesn't want to hear because his tortured expression says too much as it is.

~ * ~

 

Steve genuinely has no idea how long he's been sitting in Peter's room gazing blankly at his face when Thor sits down, his normally jovial face somber.

Steve can't bring himself to say anything, so he merely nods. Thor nods back and his blue eyes immediately take on a sheen, pinkening around the edges so that the color becomes electric, unreal. Steve straightens and the part of him that is Captain America stirs. "Thor?" he questions, his voice hoarse from strain and disuse.

A single tear glides down Thor's cheek and vanishes into the blond hairs of his mustache. Steve's heart throbs too hard, afraid.

"What—" he says and watches as another streaks from the other eye and slips into the lines carved by Thor's smiles.

Thor doesn't respond at first, looking to Peter and bending forward over his clasped hands in a sort of bow. When he leans back, he sniffles and returns the intensity of his gaze to Steve. He says quietly, "I come to weep openly, so that you may feel no shame in it."

And it feels like Steve's heart catches in his throat, tearing with finely honed blades. He looks away, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and croaks, "I can't."

"It—is unwise to deny such powerful emotions," Thor says, his voice hitching slightly and it rips a little more of Steve's self control away. "Your child is gravely ill, no one would fault you for a moment of unbounded grief."

Steve's throat constricts so tightly it feels like the skin has broken and the backs of his eyes burn, filling with heat. " _No_ ,"he says and sounds broken even to his own ears, "I _can't_."

Steve can't cry, he can't, because if he looses even one tear then it will be like he's given up on Peter and he can't. He hasn't and he won't. Peter is going to be _fine_ and Steve doesn't care if it's irrational, _he will not cry_.

So he screws up his face and swallows hard and forces back the bladed lump of his heart, feels it settle into his chest again, sharp and aching with hope.

And maybe Thor doesn't understand, but that's okay. Thor can cry for him, for the part of him that's shriveled and dying. Steve sniffs, blinks stinging, tired eyes and watches Peter's face as Thor sits quietly beside him a steady stream of tears trickling down his cheeks.

Thor finally wipes his face and stands, his shoulders weighed down by some invisible burden.

~ Chapter Twenty-Three ~

Pepper looks between the two of them. "Fury sent me to speak with you."

Tony stares at her, sullen. "Because he knows we'd have already kicked anyone else out."

She nods in acknowledgment. "That doesn't make what I'm here to say any less important."

"I don't want to hear it," Steve says, jaw tense.

"Be that as it may," Pepper says, "you need to. Peter is not showing any signs of improving—"

"He stopped being radioactive!" Tony points out.

Pepper gives him a look. "And that was nearly a week ago. You two can't keep doing this forever. You can't continue to hold a twenty-four hour bedside vigil. You haven't bathed in four days, and while, Tony, that's not completely unheard of from you, Steve? Those are the same pants you've been wearing since _Tuesday."_

Steve glares at her, hands locked in front of his now-bearded face. "I think they call this grief."

"Except _you're not grieving_ ," Pepper says. "You're in _limbo._ Believe me, I don't want this anymore than you do—"

"You don't know shit," Tony snarls and Pepper's quiet for a few seconds, her eyes taking on a bright sheen.

"No," she concedes at last, "I don't, not really. But I know you have to accept that this is your new normal. You can't stay here all day, every day. He may never wake up." Tony opens his mouth, lips pulled back in a nasty expression and she hurries to add, "I'm not going to make you do anything. I just think you should know, there are people here who love you and while I know Peter is a huge part of your lives, he's not the only part. So just. Think about that. Think about what he would want you to do."

She nods, almost to herself, and then leaves them, sitting together alone at Peter's bedside.

"It feels like giving up," Steve whispers after a long time. Tony curls into his side. "But we wouldn't," Steve goes on. "We couldn't. Not ever. Even if..."

"Never," Tony says viciously.

Steve swallows and traces the line of Peter's profile with his eyes for the millionth time. He hates to imagine the disappointment in Peter's eyes if he could see them. If he knew how many calls they'd turned down.

Maybe Pepper's right.

They hold hands.

Steve kisses Peter's forehead, brushing back his hair, and Tony follows suit, pressing his forehead to Peter's for a moment in a way that makes Steve's eyes sting. They tell him they love him, and vow that they're not giving up. Tony cries, tears tracking down his cheeks, silent and relentless.

And then they retreat.

Steve feels like a part of him is breaking off, being left behind, and he treasures the sharp edges of it, holds on and feels them dig in, because that means he's left a part of himself with Peter.

They shower and shave and Steve runs the pad of his thumb over the clean, sharp line of Tony's goatee, Tony's fingers caressing his own smooth jaw. Peter's backpack is sitting next to the kitchen table and Tony breaks down again. Steve wraps himself around him and they sit on the floor there for nearly an hour, rocking together.

"I'm...gonna go to the workshop," Tony says eventually. It sounds like the last thing he wants to do.

Steve thinks and says, finally, "I should go talk to Fury."

"Yeah," Tony says.

It's a while longer before either of them gets up.

~

Tony's lying on his back under a prototype with a wrench in hand and a screwdriver between his teeth one afternoon when JARVIS says, voice urgent, "Sir, there has been a change in Peter's brain activity."

For a second, Tony's heart stops completely.

"I thought at first it was just a minor anomaly," JARVIS goes on, "but it has continued to steadily increase all morning. Peter is approaching activity levels which indicate consciousness."

His heart slingshots into his throat and Tony claws his way out from under the prototype, dropping the screwdriver. "Where's Steve?" he demands.

"He is at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters training new recruits—"

"Get him on the phone, now!" He throws the wrench into a tool box and races into the bathroom to scrub up. No way in hell he's going up there filthy as he is and risking compromising Peter.

"I believe he has turned his phone off—"

"Then turn it on!" Tony shouts, scrubbing furiously at his arms.

"Yes, sir."

He's busy rinsing off the lather when Steve's voice comes out of the speakers, voice sharp with worry, "Tony, what is it? Are you all right?"

"Peter's brain activity's changed, JARVIS thinks he's waking up. It might not mean anything, but then again..."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Steve says and hangs up.

Tony scrubs until his skin is pink and raw, heart pounding against the arc reactor like it's trying to beat it out. He shucks his dirty clothes and yanks on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt before stuffing his feet into socks and racing for the elevator, shoes in hand.

He crams them on as the elevator rockets up to the MedBay. Something somewhere between terror and anticipation is thrumming under his skin and he can't hold his hands still to save his life.

Bruce is exiting the other elevator when he gets off, looking disheveled and breathless. "Go, go!" Tony says and Bruce jogs ahead of him, his hastily pulled on lab coat flapping.

Inside the lab, Betty's waiting for them, her eyes bright with excitement. "He's definitely coming to," she says.

"You're sure?" Bruce says before Tony can. She nods.

"Positive."

" _Tony_ ," Bruce says, grabbing hold of his hand and Tony nods a little dumbly.

"Yeah. Yeah, can I...?" He gestures at the room.

"Yes, go on, he's still clean."

Tony swallows down a sudden swarm of butterflies and goes in, eyes fixed on Peter's face. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he thinks he sees him shift minutely. He crosses over to the bed and takes his hand, squeezing it. "Hey, Bambi, it's me. Come on back to us, okay, buddy? We miss you."

Over the last couple weeks, he's gotten way more comfortable talking to this still and silent iteration of his kid than he thinks is fair, or even healthy. God, he'd give anything to hear Peter back-talking him again.

"Tony?" he hears, yelled through the lab and Tony turns, sees him burst through the door, his hair disheveled and a thin sheen of sweat at his temples and on his neck. His wrists are even still taped.

Tony reaches out to grab his outstretched hand and tilts his face up to accept the brief kiss Steve offers, his eyes raking over Peter. "Is he—"

"Not awake yet," Tony says, squeezing his hand, "but getting there."

Steve looks at him, blue eyes huge and desperate for reassurance. "Really?"

"Betty promised," Tony tells him and leans into Steve's shoulder as his throat works, his chin trembling.

He closes his eyes and whispers, "Please, God, please, give him back."

The two of them sit down, one on either side of the bed, holding Peter's hands, and they wait. The other Avengers stop by, offering well-wishes and prayers and cups of coffee, in Darcy's case. Night is settling outside the Tower, Tony fiddling with the display by Peter's bed while Steve stares at his fingers, intertwined with Peter's, when it happens.

Through the window of the transparent display, Tony sees Peter's eyelashes flutter and he barely registers it because they've been doing it all day in bursts. Except this time, they flutter and inch open. Tony's breath catches. "Steve," he whispers. "Steve!"

Steve's head snaps up and his gaze darts around, bewildered for a second before he looks to Peter's face. He leans forward, a raw, desperate kind of hope overtaking his expression. "Oh, god."

"Peter?" Tony says cautiously, watching the sliver of brown between his eyelashes slide one way and then the other. Just the sight of it is enough to form a lump in his throat.

Peter doesn't speak, doesn't even seem to realize they're there. It sours his joy somewhat.

Steve waves a hand to get Bruce's attention—he's been in the lab down here all day, attention divided between his work and the displays monitoring Peter's condition—his expression tense.

Bruce hurries in and shuffles Tony out of the way, leaning over Peter to shine a penlight in each of his eyes. Peter grimaces slightly and turns away from it. "Peter? Can you hear me?" Bruce asks. "If you can hear me, squeeze your father's hand."

Both he and Steve shake their heads a moment later.

Tony's stomach sinks as Peter's eyelashes flutter again and then settle closed again. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Is it his brain? Why didn't he respond?"

"He may not have the ability to yet, Tony. Coma patients aren't like the ones in fairy tales. It takes time for the brain to reboot."

"So he still might?" Steve asks.

"Yes," Bruce replies. "It will take time to find out how this ordeal has affected him. It may change everything, or nothing. We just have to wait and see."

"Wait and see," Tony mumbles. "Sure. Been there, done that, got the app. What's a little more?"

~

 

Peter hears voices asking his name. He's not sure why, and everything's kind of blurry and hazy. It's bright and it smells like the MedBay. He can't make sense of any of it.

He aches.

A voice asks for his name again, and it takes him a minute to work up the energy to move his mouth. It shouldn't be exhausting to say his name, but it is. Then they ask him to count backward from ten. He loses track somewhere around six.

When he wakes up again, he can see better. He remembers why he's in the MedBay, and his stomach flips sluggishly.

Everything still aches, but less he thinks, than it did before. He hears voices. He wonders if he's still dying. "Dads?" he tries.

Peter can barely hear his own voice, it's so quiet.

But someone says, "Peter?"

He's not awake long enough to answer.

 

~

 

According to Bruce, Peter's been showing signs of a full recovery, but Steve's having trouble believing it when all Peter's done is open his eyes a few times and stare hazily up at the ceiling. Bruce says he spoke once, but he wants to see for himself.

Then one morning they're visiting and he breathes, voice harsh and crackling, "Dads?"

Steve hears Tony nearly choke on nothing at all and they both lean forward at once. Steve reaches out, hand cupping Peter's face and he blinks, a little dazed. Then his eyes focus.

"Dad?" he repeats and Tony breathes, "Yeah, buddy, we're here, hey. Hey."

There are tears in the corners of Tony's eyes and Peter's forehead wrinkles, the hand Steve is holding curling just a little bit tighter. "Wh'appened?" he mumbles and everything hits Steve all at once, a building coming down around his ears.

A sob wrenches free of his chest and he hears Peter say, bewildered, "Dad?"

"Steve?" Tony says, alarm creeping into his voice, but Steve can't stop. He puts his head down to hide his face and cries. Every tear he held back before out of sheer willpower overtakes him now, rushing out in a flood, all the terror and hopelessness and absolute despair rolling through him all over again, blanketed by overwhelming, sweet relief.

He shudders with it, going easily when Tony's hands pry him up from the bed, his arms pulling him in close. "Shh, shh, hey," Tony breathes. "You don't have to— Jesus, Steve."

Then for awhile there's nothing but the feeling of his chest heaving in and out, tears tracking down his cheeks until they feel like they're on fire, hot and stinging and raw. When it finally passes, he can't breathe through his nose at all.

Peter's going to be okay.

~

 

Peter quickly realizes something is strange.

The first time he's allowed to try solid foods, the spoon sticks to his hand. He spends a full minute staring at it, stuck to his index and middle fingers. It looks almost as if his fingers have magnitized. He shakes his hand, but the spoon doesn't budge.

"Uhh...Uncle Bruce?" he says and gets the attention of his dads and his uncle. He turns his hand to face them. "This is kinda weird, right?" He shakes.

Uncle Bruce frowns. Within fifteen minutes they've got a microscope and they're peering at his hand, fussing with the spoon and trying to remove it It's been stuck for almost a half an hour when Peter flexes his hand just so and the thing drops to the bed.

"Fascinating," Bruce murmurs and takes his hand, touching his own palm to it. This time, Peter can feel the slight crawl across his skin as it adheres.

"Whoa. I can feel that." He moves his hand and Bruce stares in surprise as his own moves with it.

"Feel what?" he asks.

"It's like...like the feeling you get when air brushes over your skin." He concentrates, flexes the muscles, and feels the same slight creeping sensation. He takes his hand away easily. He looks up at Bruce and then at his dads, grinning. "It's like super-gripping action. I can stick to metal and skin, I wonder what else?"

Tony hauls in boxes of stuff, handing things to him one by one. Peter can stick to all of it.

"It's just like the mechanism that spiders use to stick to surfaces," Bruce explains later. "There are microscopic hairs on your skin that cling to virtually any material."

His dads exchange a heavy look, but Peter can barely contain his excitement. It _worked._ The serum Scabel created _worked_. He smothers a delighted laugh.

The sticking ability makes his dads curious, and his dad and Bruce start running tests with Aunt Betty, gauging his strength (increased to nearly three times his dad's ability), testing his vision (it turns out he doesn't need glasses anymore _yes)_ , and Bruce thinks maybe even some form of super healing.

"It seems like this has, in fact, improved him," Bruce informs them. "The only thing is, I'm not sure it would have worked on anyone else. Peter's always been a little bit more 'super' than your typical child, and what his body went through over the last month? It would have killed anyone else. So maybe Scabel was on to something here, but without the springboard of the original serum in Peter's blood to build off of, it's just another vial of poison."

"Speaking of which," Tony says, turning on his heel to face the bed. "Peter, I love you. I am thrilled beyond reason that you aren't dead, or paralyzed, or brain dead, or one of a million other horrifying things I've been imagining."

Peter's stomach slides to his toes. "But," he says in a small voice.

"But," Tony confirms, tilting his head forward. "You are grounded. For a _month._ " His eyes grow a little brighter, his mouth trembling with the ferocity of his expression. "No TV, no music, no lab, no Gwen, no sparring, no trips to Jersey with Johnny Storm, are you getting the picture?"

Peter sinks down in the bed, wishes it would swallow him whole. "No fun of any kind."

"Exactly," Tony bites out. "And do you get _why?_ "

Peter swallows and glances at Steve who's watching him with his arms crossed, grim and unsympathetic.

Tony's eyes flash. Not literally, but it's a close thing. " _Because_ ," he goes on, "You trusted a guy you learned about via _the internet—_ "

"I found him with JARVIS' help," Peter protests on reflex and that's such a terrible idea, mouth, _why._

"Who you are _also_ not allowed to speak to!" Tony snaps. "In fact, _you're_ fucking grounded, JARVIS, we _talked_ about this!"

"I'm very sorry, Sir," JARVIS murmurs softly.

"Not yet you aren't," Tony growls. Then he comes back to Peter. "I thought you were a _responsible_ kid. A model fucking teenager, but then you go and do what basically amounts to _buying drugs_. You _lied_ to us, you went behind our _backs_ , you endangered not only yourself, but everyone in the goddamn tower. If you'd become radioactive but not sick?? Your father and I thought we'd _lost_ you, after—after everything we went through just to _have you—_ "

"Tony," Steve says and touches his arm.

Peter flounders, guilty and frustrated. "I just wanted to—"

"You just wanted to feed your own ego!" Tony snarls. "You didn't give two seconds thought to what might happen—what it would _do_ to us if something happened to you!"

Peter's arguments wither and die in his throat. He...hadn't. His dads have been clingy and teary since he woke up and they tell him he almost died and, wow, he'd bought into his own propaganda of being the _good_ kid and totally blown it. He stares down at his hands and whispers, "I'm sorry."

Tony sighs, long and sad.

"Thank you," Steve says quietly. He moves closer, deliberately uncrossing his arms. "Peter...we want you to have everything that you want. We really do. But there's so much you don't know yet, and I know you feel invincible, but...it scares us that you thought this was what you had to do."

"I get that you want this. I do," Tony says. "It hurts that you didn't come to me though."

"You guys never listened when I brought it up!" Peter bursts and winces, expecting retribution.

Instead, Tony takes a shaky breath. "Okay, that's fair."

Peter blinks at him. "It is?"

Steve grimaces. It looks like it pains him to say it, but he agrees. "We brushed it aside when we shouldn't have. We should have taken you more seriously—tried to give you other options. You did this because you felt you had no other choice, am I right?"

He picks at the blanket and shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess."

"So we've all got things to work on," Tony says.

"But I'm still grounded?" Peter asks even though he knows the answer.

"Absolutely," Steve says. "You broke a whole slew of rules. You break the rules, you do the time."

Peter sighs. "Yeah. I guess that's to be expected."

"You want to grow up, you have to deal with the consequences like a grown up." Steve shrugs. He fiddles with the blanket by Peter's leg. "We love you."

Peter rolls his eyes, but fondly. "Yeah, Dad, I love you, too."

"Now cough up the phone," Tony says, waving his hand in a gimme gesture. "I know Darcy smuggled it in this morning."

With a groan, Peter pulls the phone out from under the blankets. "Can I at least tell Gwen I'm grounded?"

"Yep, first thing Tuesday morning when you go back to school."

Peter moans again, but he holds out the phone, lets his hand drop under it's weight and—something white shoots out of his upturned wrist, hitting Tony in a white starburst on the left side of his face.

He starts, reaching up to touch it.

"What the hell is that?" Steve says in surprise.

"I don't know!" Peter exclaims. "Sorry, Dad! Sorry!"

"Ugh, gross," Tony says, "feels like spiderwebs. Steeeve, get it off!"

The two of them start picking at the fine white strands and Peter can't help it. He cracks up. "It's stuck in your goatee!"

Tony whines and Steve huffs, brow furrowing as he carefully removes the webbing, which clings to his fingers. "Bruce," he calls, "come look at this!"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Tony wails, "it shot out of Peter's wrist!"

"You're sure that's where it came from?" Bruce says with the tiniest twitch of his mouth and both Steve and Tony groan.

"God, please, no, don't put things like that in my head what is _wrong_ with you, Bruce?"

"It looks like some kind of spider silk," Bruce says interestedly, reaching out to touch the chunks hanging from Steve's fingers. "Fascinating. Where did you say it came from?"

"From my wrist," Peter says. "I held out my hand and dropped my hand back—"

He repeats the motion and Bruce exclaims, "Whoa!" as more of the white substance shoots out of his wrist. He ducks out of the way, just barely, and the substance hits the window. It actually looks like a spiderweb spread out across the glass like that.

"Oops."

"So that's what those wounds were becoming," Bruce mutters and crosses to examine Peter's wrists, carefully pressing his hand back to get the same reaction. Pretty soon the window's nearly covered.

Peter looks at his dads and they're both staring at the webbing in wonder. Tony's talking about testing the strength and range of it, gesticulating enthusiastically, while Steve hums thoughtfully and occasionally slips in a comment about tactical usage such as blinding enemies, maybe even pinning them, he adds, plucking at the strands stuck to his fingers.

And maybe he went about it the wrong way, but Peter's officially a superhero now and he can already feel the way his dads are treating him differently—more seriously, and it feels amazing.

Look out, New York, here comes the Spider-Man.


	5. Draft V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This draft was created because I finally figured out what the hell to do with the bad guy.

"Gwen," Peter pleads, but she refuses to look at him.

His dad goes still, gaze sharpening. He looks between them and then steps inside and closes the door behind him. Peter crosses his arms and feels himself shrink a little when Steve turns his Power Puzzle-Solver face on him.

"Peter, do you want to tell me what she's talking about?"

Peter shakes his head. "No, nope, nope, I think I'm good. There's nothing to tell." He doesn't know why he says it, because it's over. Gwen's turned on him and he's so, so screwed. He's only making it worse for himself.

Dad looks disappointed, but resigned. "Gwen?" he says.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she whispers, mouth trembling. "I can't keep this secret for you. I think you knew that, or— You would have told me before."

His dad is starting to look worried.

Gwen looks up at him, her hands folded tightly in her lap. "There's a man named Doctor Kane Scabel at OsCorp. He works in their genetics division doing experiments with radioactivity and he's the primary scientist who works with their radioactive spider specimens."

"Radioactive spiders?" Steve says incredulously. " _Why?_ " Then Peter sees him put the pieces together. Steve's eyes drop to his hand.

Peter slides it under his elbow.

That brings Steve's eyes up to his. "Scabel... That's...that's that scientist Tony didn't want you working with." His expression turns a little more fearful. "Did that man—did he do this to you, Peter?"

For a split-second, Peter thinks about saying yes. But that's the coward in him talking and goes against the whole purpose of doing this in the first place. He feels kind of awful thinking it at all. So he meets his dad's eyes and says, "No, Dad. I did. I volunteered."

The room is so quiet Peter feels like the hum of the machinery is going to deafen him.

"You...volunteered," Steve says finally.

Peter pushes himself upright, ignoring the ache in his joints. "Dad, you gotta understand, I can't protect you like, like _this_ ," he says, waving at his gangly limbs, his glasses.

Steve covers his mouth.

When he pulls it away and says, "Peter—" his voice is rough and low. Whatever it is he means to say, he stops. He breathes in, a little shaky, and then says, firm, "I'm going to call your father. Then you're going to tell us _everything._ "

Peter nods and stares at his hands. He hopes they can't reverse it.

~

 

Peter's dad leaves and Gwen tightens her grip on the books in her lap. She looks up at Peter, who's staring at his hands, clenched around the blanket near his waist, and says through a thick throat, "I'm sorry, Peter."

He looks up at her, mouth thin and eyes smoldering. "You had no right."

The small part of her that thought he might understand flickers and goes out. Her lip starts to tremble and hard as she tries she can't make it stop. Finally, she forces out, "You're fifteen, Peter."

"I'm old enough!" he snaps.

She looks at him sharply, feeling the tears collecting in her eyes. "Do you even know who that man is, Peter? Did you do _any_ research before you reached out to him?"

"Yeah, of course I did—"

"He used to work for your dad, Peter."

That pulls Peter up short, she can see it in his face. "That doesn't mean anything. If he worked for my dad—"

"There's no official record of why he left," she says, severely, because he needs to _understand,_ dammit. " _None._ "

"What does it matter where he worked before anyway?" Peter demands. He's starting to get pale, sweat gathering around his temples.

She stares at him, mouth agape. "What does it _matter?_ Peter, he worked for your father, at one of the most ethical scientific corporations in the world and something happened that made it impossible to find out why he left, if it was of his own volition or if he was _made_ to leave. That's a huge red flag! And you know how dangerous radioactive experimentation is, Doctor Banner—"

"Is safe!" Peter snarls and Gwen shakes her head, looking up at the ceiling when she feels a tear slip free.

Voice shaking, she says, "You know he hasn't always been. You're spitting in the face of everything he's overcome to become that way, doing something like this."

"Just— Just go," Peter says through gritted teeth.

Gwen covers her mouth with one hand, trying to stop a sob from escaping her throat. "I'm sorry," she chokes, "I just couldn't sit by and watch you risk your life."

She doesn't wait for an answer. She picks up her books and flees.

~

 

The muffled sound of a bell ringer coaxes Tony out of a deep sleep, and immediately brings a smile to his face _._

His fingers seek out and find his phone underneath the pillow on the other side of the bed and he drags it out, still mostly asleep. He answers, "Mm, hi, Steve."

The cool, smooth softness of the pillow under his head feels fantastic, and he burrows a little deeper into it.

" _Hi, Tony._ "

"I finally got some sleep," Tony tells him proudly, knowing it will make Steve happy. He's weird like that.

" _That's great, Tony,_ " Steve says quietly and Tony frowns, eyes cracking open.

He squints at the clock on the bedside table. The readout is blurry. "What's the matter? Normally you'd be wetting yourself in delight over that achievement." He rubs his eyes and tries again. The clock says its quarter past five. "What time is it there anyway? I've got a couple hours. We could, ah, have a little fun—"

" _Tony, shut up for a second, would you?"_ Steve snaps.

Tony blinks, startled into silence. "What's got your panties in a twist?"

" _I know why Peter is sick,_ " Steve barrels on.

Pushing the hair back off of his forehead, Tony's brow furrows. "Yeah, I know, too. He's got the flu. A spider bit him—"

" _It's not the flu,"_ Steve says and Tony digs his fingers into the corner of his eye sockets, pushing up to slouch against the headboard.

"What do you mean it's not the flu? Did the double-B's find something else?"

" _No. Gwen came by to visit. She and Peter were talking—I don't know what happened, but I went in to split them up because I told them no touching. Gwen said that she knew why Peter was sick. She said OsCorp is doing experiments with radioactive spider specimens and mentioned a scientist called Kane Scabel..._ "

The sound of Tony's breathing suddenly seems very loud in his ears.

Scabel had been responsible for the only incident in over fifteen _years_ when the room Peter is now staying in had ever been used for it's radiation containing purposes, insisting that irradiation combined with his "serum" would be able to replicate or at least create a similar effect to the Erskine serum. But he'd displayed a serious lack of reverence for life in his notes and Tony had turned him down flat, ordering him to get back to the work he'd been hired for. _Life-saving_ work.

Instead he'd brought in a goddamn rabbit from _home_ and gone ahead with the experiment.

The radiation meters in the building had gone apeshit and Steve had assembled the team as per Unplanned Hulk-Out protocol when JARVIS reported that Bruce was...occupied and definitely _not_ Hulking-out.

One thing had led to another and they'd found the rabbit and stuck it into the isolation room to prevent it from irradiating the whole damn Tower. It had gone through some really unpleasant changes before finally expiring and, come to think of it, that had been the incident that had gotten Scabel fired.

Tony remembers the raw-skinned, steroid-injected look of the dying rabbit, eugh, and shudders.

And now, now Steve's telling him that that madman, that sick freak has something to do with what's happening to their kid.

". _..Peter said that he volunteered, but I don't know what that means, Tony. This Scabel is in charge of these genetically modified spiders, so he what? He let one of them bite him?_ "

"Wait," Tony says, brain catching up, "wait, _what?_ Peter said he'd done this?"

" _That's what he said. He said, 'I volunteered'._ "

"Why the _hell_ would he— That can't be right. Scabel had something to do with this—he tricked him into it, or blackmailed him or, or—" Tony feels fury like flames licking behind his eyes.

" _Tricked him into what, Tony?_ "

"He was trying to recreate the serum."

" _What?"_ Steve's shock is tinged with a sharp anger and Tony's mouth sets into a grim line. Yeah, this is going to bring up all sorts of bad shit Steve's had to deal with, thanks to Zola.

Tony bends over the edge of the bed to scoop his tablet up off the floor. "Yeah," he says, "five years ago. In August."

Steve's quiet for a minute, thinking back. While he thinks, Tony sends a message to Pepper. " _Something happened at SI you wouldn't tell me about,"_ Steve says finally. _"You said not to worry about it, that you couldn't talk about it._ "

"I had to sign a gag order. It was just—better not to tell you. Scabel experimented on a rabbit."

Steve's horror is palpable over the line. " _That day we thought there had been an incident._ "

"That's the one," Tony says grimly. The door to his room opens and Pepper sticks her head in. "Ah, good, Pepper, come here, I have to go home."

"Tony, no," Pepper says, shaking her head. "You can't go back, not now. The funeral's in—" She checks her watch. "—five hours. You can't leave without attending. I'll put in an itinerary and you can leave the minute it's over, but you can't leave before that, Tony. I'm sorry, you can't."

He hears Steve swallow on the other end of the line. His voice comes out rough: " _She's right, Tony. Not before the funeral."_

"What's going on?" Pepper asks. "What happened? Is Peter okay?"

"I'll tell you later," Tony says. "Right now, Steve and I need to have a conversation with our son and figure out exactly what the hell is going on."

~

 

Steve asks Bruce and Betty to leave the lab. This is something he, Tony, and Peter have to talk about on their own.

"How you feeling?" he asks when he's closed the door behind him.

Peter glances up and then back down at his lap. "Fine."

"If you don't feel up to it—"

"I'm fine, Dad," Peter insists, like Steve is annoying him. "Can we just get this over with?"

Steve's sympathy sours. "JARVIS, put Tony through," he says, and pulls out the nearest view screen with a sharp tug. He sits down on the opposite side of the bed so he can see them both.

Tony's face pops up on screen. He's half-dressed in an all-black suit, with a tie looped around the popped collar of his shirt. "So."

Peter shrinks down into the bed.

"All right, Peter," Steve says, stern. "Tell us everything."

"What do you want to know?"

Steve looks over at Tony because honestly, he has no idea. Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees, and says, "You know Scabel because you started that internship for him. Then I told you that was a no-go and..." He trails off, prompting Peter to continue with a look.

"You said I couldn't do the internship, that I couldn't go anywhere near OsCorp. So I didn't," Peter says. He sniffs and pushes his glasses up with the back of one hand, eyes sliding sideways. "I emailed him to tell him I wasn't coming back and he said that was okay. He said I could help him out over email and video chat. I did exactly what you wanted," Peter says, looking up at Tony, jaw set. "I stayed away from OsCorp."

"OsCorp?" Tony echoes. " _OsCorp?_ I don't give a damn about OsCorp, Peter! Okay, that's a lie, I think they're walking a razor-wire tightrope between right and wrong, and Norman Osborne is a ruthless son of a bitch whose ethics are for sale, and, yeah, biological science is not my thing, at _all_ , but that's got nothing to do with why I didn't want you doing that internship!"

Peter scoffs. "I'm supposed to believe that? All you ever do is belittle them, Dad!"

Tony pauses, hand raised. After a moment he says, "Okay. That's— That's fair. I don't say a lot of nice things about OsCorp, you're right."

"Try never."

Steve watches as his son and his husband stare each other down. One day, Peter won't be the first to look away.

Peter glares at the blankets. "If it wasn't about OsCorp, what _was_ it about?"

"Scabel," Tony says, his mouth pulling into a sharp slash across his face. "He's dangerous. I didn't want him anywhere near you."

"Scabel? Dangerous?" Peter's voice is bright with disbelief.

Steve might have taken his side, if he didn't know _why_ Tony had been ruthless in dismissing the scientist.

"He used to work here, for me, Peter. In the labs. There was an incident—" Tony shakes his head. "He was fired, but we had to keep him quiet. We were forced to sign a gag order."

"What did he do?"

"He tried to recreate the super soldier serum that made your dad the way he is. But he used radiation. He did unauthorized tests on an animal. It died, he almost irradiated the whole place."

"So he made a mistake. What if he was right? What if he figured it out and it just needed tweaking? Someone who would support his research—"

"It's impossible. Nix that, I shouldn't say impossible, I've said that way too often and been wrong more than I like to admit, but radiation is _deadly_. We haven't found a way around that. Nobody has. Messing around with it is dangerous because it's unpredictable. I mean, we get billions of deaths, but then every so often there's your Uncle and the Fantastic Four, and it did not work out great for two out of those five lucky people who wound up not-dead. It's a complete crapshoot until we understand more about the kind of science Thor deals in."

"But what if it's _not_?"

Steve shifts forward, heart thumping hard. "Peter, is that what he gave you?"

On screen, Tony falls into silence, disbelieving.

Peter sets his jaw, determined and stubborn, and says, "Yes."

Steve's stomach lurches, and he's abruptly dizzy and nauseated. He can't think, can't speak.

Tony's eyes have gone bright with fury, his cheeks splotched red. "He gave you his serum."

Steve's eyes are drawn to Peter's hands, white knuckled around his blankets. "I _asked_ him for the serum."

Tony gives a whole body flinch, like the words have physically struck him and says, very clearly, controlled to the last syllable, "You. Did. What?"

Peter's uncertainty vanishes, his features sharpening. "You wouldn't listen to me." He glances over to include Steve and it feels like someone's pulled his stomach out through his throat. " _Neither_ of you would listen to me. I _told_ you, so many times, that I wanted to do more—"

"You're a goddamn kid!" Tony snaps, voice like a whipcrack.

"I'll be able to _help_ people!" Peter all but shouts, the veins along his temples growing more visible as his frustration mounts. "You! You raised me to think of other people, to want to do the right thing, but _you wouldn't let me!_ "

"This could kill you, you realize that?" Tony snarls.

"Tony!" Steve says.

"This isn't the serum you saw, Dad, he's fixed it, I've been studying his research for months—"

Tony snorts, derision clear on his face. "Where are you keeping the data? Everything. Where is it? He wouldn't have done this— _you—_ wouldn't have done this without recording your research so where is it?"

Peter hesitates and Tony's patience snaps.

" _Goddammit, Peter_ , give me what I need to figure out how to keep you alive!"

"It's in my stuff," Peter finally bursts. "Under..." His eyes drop. "Under College Applications."

Steve doesn't know what to do. How to _feel._ He covers his mouth. Everyone had warned them that Peter would start to keep secrets, but he'd never really believed...

"I have to go," Tony grits. "JARVIS, lock him out. Nothing, got it? You revoke his access to everything—block his goddamn phone."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Peter mutters bitterly, sinking back into the pillows. "There's no one I want to talk to."

"Good," Tony snarls and the screen goes black.

Peter looks over at him and some of the anger seeps out of his expression. "Dad... I..."

Steve

 

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

 

For awhile, Peter stares at the wall and he's so, _so_ angry.

His dads are _hypocrites._ He doesn't understand why they're doing this, why they won't _listen_ to him.

Peter seethes and he seethes until his hands cramp from gripping his blankets so tight. The door opens and he refuses to look.

"Peter," Bruce says, and his voice is quiet, but firm.

He looks.

Bruce looks back at him, way calmer than Peter expected, honestly. "Steve told us about Scabel. About the serum."

"If you came to yell at me, start with something more original than _'you're just a kid, Peter',_ will you?"

Brruce steps forward slowly, running his fingers along the capped syringe in his hands. "I didn't come to yell. I just came to get some blood so we can see what this serum's doing."

"You're going to try and reverse it," Peter says, accusing.

Bruce looks up at him. "I don't know. That's what we'd like, ideally. But we have no experience with this, no idea what it's doing or what it's capable of—Betty and I are just starting to gather the research. Even if we want to, the likelihood that we'll be able to come up with anything that will counteract what you've been given without endangering you is...unlikely."

That gives Peter a vicious surge of hope.

"May I?" Bruce asks, and reaches for his arm.

Peter holds it out. "Go nuts."

They're both quiet while Bruce rubs alcohol over the crook of his elbow, uncaps the syringe, and slides it into Peter's arm. It hurts more than it usually would. They're both watching his blood fill the barrel of the syringe when Bruce speaks up.

"I always thought that if something like this happened it would be my fault. That it would be because you came into contact with my blood somehow. I was dangerous. I never imagined... I never wanted my past to repeat, not like this. I thought that you would learn from my mistakes so that you wouldn't—"

He closes his eyes and slides the needle free.

"I should have done more. I'm sorry, Peter."

 

~

 

Tony goes to the funeral.

He wears black, all black, the whole shebang, with Pepper at his side, her face covered in a veil, hair tucked up under the hat. Her mouth is set in a grim line.

Mid-way through one of the moms is up at the podium crying her eyes out and talking about how much her baby loved engineering and how he was getting his degree from the University of Central Queensland and Tony's throat closes up because Peter could wind up like that sorry-sack goddamn rabbit and they might never even find _out_ what he wants to major in. Rage sweeps through him, washing out from his chest to his fingertips and he clenches them into fists, feeling himself shaking.

Beside him Pepper opens her parasol. It drops down until he can't even see the woman who's speaking anymore. Pepper leans over and orders, "Breathe, Tony."

His lip curls automatically and he he he snaps, "I _am_ breathing."

Pepper stares at him, eyes narrowing. Tony breathes.

The rest passes in a blur, his chest tight like someone's twisting the arc reactor casing. It's hard to breathe and hard to think. Peter did this to _himself_. When the fuck have they _ever_ made him feel like he wasn't enough, exactly the way he was? How could he be so goddamn stupid?

Tony doesn't even realize the funeral's ended until Pepper taps his knee, dragging him back from across the ocean. "Come on," she says. "The car's waiting for you."

Tony gets up to follow her, accepting his phone back just in time for it to go off in his hand.

He answers with, "Pepper's taking me to the car now—"

Steve all but shouts, " _Tony, he's having another seizure!"_

Tony only vaguely hears everything after "another seizure", and he doesn't realize his phone has slipped out of his hand until Pepper catches it and puts it to her own ear. "Steve?" she says. "What's—" She gasps. "Oh no." Tony forces his neck to turn and looks at her, but can't get his mouth to form the words to ask what Steve is saying. If he doesn't hear them, he can pretend— No, that's bullshit. He needs to know what's happening in order to be able to do something.

He holds out his hand and Pepper's eyes flick over him, measuring. He lets his look harden into a glare and snaps his fingers imperiously.

"Okay, Steve— Steve! Tony wants his phone back, I'm going to pass you ov— Okay. No, I can— I can handle this here. Of course. Don't be ridiculous, Steve, no one expects that of either of you. I'll see him onto the plane myself. Okay. Keep me appraised?" she says, and that isn't an order, it's a plea, the softer core of her peeking through her tough shell. "I'll talk to you soon. Give Peter my love. Okay. Bye, Steve."

She passes the phone back and Tony has it to his ear in a heartbeat. "Steve?" he says, croaks, really, and he tries to work some moisture into his mouth while Steve goes on.

" _You're on your way?_ "

"Yeah, getting in the car now." He wipes a hand over his face, stopping over his mouth. "God, Steve, he's okay, right? I mean, besides the obvious—"

" _I don't know, Tony_ ," Steve says and as angry as Tony is, the fear of what Scabel's serum is doing to Peter takes over. He thinks briefly of taking the suit, of going home on his own, but he's not sure he should be in charge of getting himself there right now, the way he feels.

" _I'm on the floor now_ ," Steve says and Tony can hear the faintest shush of doors sliding apart as he exits the elevator. He can picture Steve stalking down the hallway, a man on a mission, and he's just grateful Steve hasn't hung up yet. His heart starts to pound harder as he visualizes Steve moving into and then across the lab into the secondary lab attached to Peter's room. He can't _stand_ it, god, he can't, what the hell is going _on—_ "Steve," he prompts; pleads, really, who the hell is he kidding?

Then he hears Steve let out a soft, heaving breath, his voice unsteady when he says, " _Oh, God, Tony, I don't— Bruce?_ " His voice breaks, plaintive, and Tony shifts forward, clutching at the short hairs on the back of his head.

"Steve, please, Jesus, tell me what the hell is happening."

After a torturous moment in which Tony can make out the tenor of Bruce's voice but not the words, Steve says, " _Peter... Peter's still seizing. Bruce says he might for up to fifteen minutes. The...the activity is happening in the entire left hemisphere of his brain. Bruce has JARVIS—_ " Then Steve cuts off with a strangled little noise and Bruce barks something in the background. Tony shoots upright, fingers digging into the leather of the seat.

"Steve! _"_ Tony waits for a fraction of a second, fingers hurting under the force he's exerting, and then he yanks the phone back away from his head and shouts, "Goddammit, JARVIS, get me video feeds _now—"_

Pepper lays a hand on his arm and he jerks away from her, his chest heaving. It feels like he's going to break apart, like his heart is going to burst in his chest and he can't breathe—he's having a goddamn panic attack. Shit, he hasn't had one in ages.

"Tony, breathe!" Pepper barks.

"Peter," he bleats back at her, scrabbling at his tie because it's choking him. This is his worst nightmare, worse even than kidnapping, then some psycho getting his hands on Peter, because this, he can't fight this, he can't fight Peter's own _body._

"Tony!"

He yelps as a tumbler full of ice cascades right down the front of his shirt, stomach shrinking back away from the bite of it, and he scrambles to get his shirt untucked. That just dumps the rapidly melting cubes into his lap.

"What the hell, Pepper!"

"Calm. Down," she orders, giving him a narrow-lipped glare.

Icy water is dripping onto the fly of his pants and he shudders, shouting, "Okay, okay, Jesus! I'm calm! I'm calm!"

"We're at the airport," Pepper informs him pointing and he can, in fact, see the airfield just outside the window. "I've filed a flight plan and they're ready to go the minute you're on board. Seizures are bad, Tony, but they are not a death sentence. You need to breathe slowly and _get your butt in gear._ You are Tony Stark. Practically the entire world owes you a favor. Cash them in. Get Peter the help he needs and get him better. You cannot do that if you are panicking and frozen. Do you understand?"

Tony swallows hard and goes over everything she's said in his head again. "Okay," he says at last, because she's right. He can do this.

  
"Good," Pepper says. "Now go home and kiss your husband and hug your son. Everything will be okay."

Tony reaches for the door handle, pausing when he's laid his hand over it. "Pepper—"

"I know," she says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. "Go."

~ Chapter Fifteen ~

 

Just before he reaches the plane, Peter stops seizing.

Eight minutes and fifty-eight seconds this time. The last one was only three and twenty-nine.

Tony does all right controlling his anxiety until the airplane door seals shut behind him and he realizes this is where he's going to be for the next twelve hours. He's an eternity away from home and Scabel's serum is working it's way through Peter, blazing a path of destruction. The stewardess murmurs, "Can I get you anyth—" and he cuts her off.

"Scotch. Bring the bottle," he orders, and Steve says sharply in his ear, " _Tony_."

"Twelve goddamn hours, Steve," he retorts. His heart is fluttering like a nervous butterfly. Steve doesn't say anything else and Tony wishes the triumph didn't feel so sour. "JARVIS, get me those video feeds," he says and taps the table top with unsteady fingers. He can't be there physically for Peter, but that sure as hell doesn't mean there's nothing he can do. A holographic monitor springs up in front of him, and at the front of the plane a screen descends against the wall. "Equipment readings here in front of me, video feed on the screen."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS replies and before he's finished speaking all of Tony's orders have been carried out. The video is from a camera in the ceiling just above the door of Peter's room so he's looking straight at the bed where Peter's curled up into Steve's side. He looks awful and Tony can't tell if it's because he just didn't _notice_ , or if it's because he's that much worse than he was. God, he hopes it's not that.

"How's he doing?" he asks as he flicks his fingers over the table display, taking in Peter's vitals. His heart's steady and normal, breathing's normal, and the EEG tracking his brainwaves looks normal, as far as Tony can tell, but he's not exactly a neurologist. His temperature's crept back up to a hundred and two and that makes Tony start gnawing at the corner of his thumbnail. People aren't meant to sustain that kind of body temperature.

The stewardess finally brings the bottle of scotch and Tony snatches it and the glass she brought out of her hand and pours two fingers, sloshing some of it on the table.

" _He's okay_ ," Steve says, quiet, and Tony glances up at the video to see Steve stroke Peter's unruly hair back from his forehead with infinitely gentle fingers. " _He's hot and drowsy. A little confused._ " Tony feels his lower lip tremble and he pours the shots down his throat. It's been awhile since he had a drink and his eyes prickle at the stripe of heat it paints down his sternum. God, not enough, it's not enough. He just wants to get _blitzed._ He pours another two and has the glass raised to his mouth when he hears:

" _Dad? Izzat Dad?_ " Peter mumbles, shifting on the screen and Steve catches him around the shoulders, keeping him pressed against his side. He doesn't resist, just sags against Steve's chest and lets his head loll to the side. " _Dad?_ "

Tony starts to reply, "Yeah, buddy, I'm here," but his heart seems to have gotten caught in his throat and it takes a second for him to swallow down the obstruction and croak the words.

" _Dad? Dad, where is he?_ "

Steve holds Peter tighter and kisses the top of his head. " _He's on the phone Peter, he's on his way home_."

" _Oh_ ," Peter says and he sounds disappointed. It's insane how much a little thing like that hurts. Tony slings back the next two shots.

" _Shh_ ," Steve murmurs and strokes the nape of Peter's neck with his thumb. " _He's coming as fast as he can_."

"I'm sorry, Peter," Tony says, and, dammit, his voice is thick, the words sticking to the inside of his throat. "I want to be there, I really, _really_ do."

"' _s okay, Dad, 'm gonna be okay, promise,_ " Peter mumbles and Tony hunches forward over the table and takes in a wet, hitching breath, one hand clamped tight over his mouth.

When he gets control of himself, he lifts his head and sniffs once, rubbing at his brow. The alcohol is starting to do its work, softening the panic and the anxiety, distancing him from his body just enough. He breathes and scrubs his hands over his face and clears his throat, says, "J, get Bruce. I want that data."

~

 

Peter falls asleep not long after Tony's plane takes off. Tony himself is still talking a thousand miles an hour from the speakers in the ceiling, but Steve's had the volume turned down so he has to work to understand the individual words so it won't bother Peter.

Steve considers getting up to go loom over Bruce's shoulder while he works, but decides he'll be more of a hindrance than a help and right now just being close to Peter is the best thing for his nerves.

Peter being as sick as he was growing up has been his greatest fear since he and Tony decided that yes, they did want to have a child. He was a sick kid and that's a part of him, something that makes him who he is, but it was a hard road and he just wants Peter to be _healthy_. It's such a blessing to be healthy and maybe Peter takes it for granted, but Steve likes it that way. Maybe that's where he went wrong.

Through the glass he can see Bruce and Betty both working, Bruce bent over a station with a monitor. He maximizes a window and Tony's face fills the screen.

The alcohol is evidently kicking in because there's a flush across Tony's cheeks and nose and his movements have taken on a loose laziness. Steve doesn't like the surge of resentment he feels.

People assume sometimes that because he's Christian, and Captain America, that he doesn't approve of drinking. Mostly Steve lets them because it seems most people who are bothered by that are people who are drinking to excess anyhow. But the truth is a lot less noble; Steve doesn't like to see Tony drink because it makes him jealous.

He wouldn't mind being able to drown his troubles at the bottom of a bottle once in awhile.

But that's him taking the health Doctor Erskine gave him for granted.

Steve sighs, feeling a little bit the fool; thinking of Doctor Erskine always gets his priorities back in line. He kisses Peter's forehead and then eases out of the bed and slips into the lab to listen.

"There's nothing overtly toxic in it," Bruce is saying. "Aside from the spider venom, I mean. It's a latrotoxin and there's enough of it to cause symptoms, but not nearly enough to kill him."  
  
" _Okay, great,_ " Tony says. " _Fantastic. So we know Scabel isn't deliberately trying to kill Peter, unless the mixture overall is in some way toxic—_ "

"It's highly unlikely," Bruce says. "The make-up is really more like that of a vaccine."

" _A vaccine, huh?_ "

"A vaccine for what?" Steve asks and the three of them look up.

Betty shakes her head. "Humanity, maybe?"

"There's nothing we can do," Steve says. "No way to reverse what's been done already? Stop whatever's happening."

Bruce shakes his head. "The radiation is still increasing. I've never seen that before. I have no idea where we'd even start to try and stop this."

Steve sighs and nods. He glances at Bruce and Betty. "Give us a minute?"

" _This sucks, this fucking sucks,"_ Tony says as Steve slips back into Peter's room.

"Yeah," he agrees. He sits down next to the bed and stares down at his hands, hanging between his knees. He can hear Tony mumbling wobbly curses to himself, the very faint clinking of the bottle against his glass. Everything unraveled so quickly. "I'm sorry, Tony," he breathes. "I'm so sorry."

Tony sniffles and after a pause, he says, " _Come on, don't do that, Steve. This isn't your fault. Nobody could have seen this coming._ "

 _But I'm supposed to,_ Steve doesn't say.

~

 

Bruce rolls the fine focus knob ever so slightly, bringing the contents of the slide into sharper relief. Tony has a very nice electron microscope, one that every university Bruce knows of would pay dearly to possess, but for some things he prefers a slightly more traditional approach.

Besides, at the moment the EM is processing a whole batch of samples under JARVIS' direction, so it isn't available.

His lips move as he counts each type of cell, his head lifting at the end of each cycle to look at the paper where he's taking notes. Or, well, the StarkPad. Close enough. It even has lines on it and Tony designed a stylus that looks like a ballpoint pen just for him.

And, probably, because it amused him to see other people steal the pen and try to write on regular paper.

Bruce has learned which battles to fight and which ones to let go and it actually is pretty amusing anyway.

He could write his notes without looking away, but his eyes need the break from the harsh light of the scope and it gives him a chance to glance at the video feed of Tony.

It isn't a reassuring picture, but that's all the more reason to keep doing it. There will come a point—probably in the not too distant future—when Tony's doing himself more harm than Peter good and he'll have to be banished from the work. Bruce doesn't expect that to be easy, but it will be necessary all the same. For now though, while he's on that flight, alone, he needs it.

The chatter that normally runs as soundtrack to their working together in the lab—a lab, any lab—has ground to a halt. Tony is, for his standard values of activity, unnaturally still.

Bruce extends his break and notes Tony's gaze; he can tell it's stuck on the image he has of Peter in the clear-walled observation room at one end of the lab. It can be locked down with negative pressure to make it a quarantine, but things aren't quite that dire, yet.

Thank God, because Bruce does not relish the idea of having to talk Tony into a hazmat suit just to get close to his son.

The bitchfit that would follow about how it's un-fucking-fair that he has to when Steve doesn't and how it's his choice anyway if he wants to expose himself to whatever Peter's giving off, that they share half the same DNA anyway so how bad can it be? might be enough for Bruce to have to excuse himself to keep from ruining their chances of ever figuring out how to counter this.

When Tony starts wilfully ignoring scientific principles in favor of doing whatever the hell he wants, the situation has truly reached critical mass.

Bruce is hoping to avoid that.

The sooner they know what's going on and therefore the sooner they can stop and/or fix it, the easier that will be to avoid.

That in mind, Bruce writes down his numbers and goes back for another look.

Tony's moving again by the time he's finished with the slide, has been for a few minutes, pacing in and out of the frame.

At some point he's picked up a pair of ice tongs and started tapping out a rhythm on his twitching fingers.

He occasionally stops at one of the displays running in his make-shift control center, shuffles about the graphs and charts and resizes them up and down, lips moving but rarely speaking aloud, makes an expression or two of anger, worry, frustration, or all three, glances back at Peter's feed, and begins pacing and tapping again.

Years of practice are all that keep Bruce from shutting him out so he can work in peace. Well, that and the understanding that Tony needs to be doing something—or at least feeling like he is—or he would explode, if not himself, something else.

"Next slide," Bruce says and holds out his hand, the sample he's done with held upright between his third and fourth fingers, the second waiting to pinch the new slide against the third. DUM-E obligingly swings it into place, then takes the old sample away. They're quite practiced at the exchange now, so Bruce can watch Tony the whole time.

Tony somehow feels his stare because he turns and flashes a grin, the quick, automatic kind he usually reserves for media, elected officials, and Fury—when he wants to be especially annoying.

"So what are we looking at so far?" he says, plopping down into his seat, fingers splaying to enlarge the feed where Bruce is shown, and then... sighing, his shoulders dropping as he wipes a hand over his face.

He's been stressed beyond the norm in the last week and a half and every second of that is written in his posture and his face. How he's been managing to this point is something of a mystery to Bruce.

Not a surprise, he's seen it and worse before, but still a mystery.

His eyes are hooded, his mouth a grim line. He'd look better if he was the one in the quarantine room and he has neither Peter's youth nor his enhanced DNA.

Bruce takes a moment to muster his most reassuring smile. "Peter's in the best possible hands there are. We'll fix this," he says.

Tony tries to smile back, but doesn't quite make it, his lips doing a weird sort of twitch instead.

He gives up quickly, dropping his head onto folded arms and inhaling and exhaling deeply three times.

Then he lifts his head again until he can rest his chin on his forearms and nods with a quick jerk. "What've we got?"

Bruce brings a hand up to scratch at his head, the other tapping his notes and drawing the command to have them assimilated into the rest of the data. When the confirmation flashes, he sends it to the big screen that syncs to one on Tony's plane and minimizes the others already there.

Tony's bloodshot eyes scan the information, taking it in and, Bruce is hoping, seeing something other than what he is.

Tony's brows furrow, though, and he says, "Wait, what?"

Damn.

Tony looks at him and Bruce realizes he's said that aloud. Oops.

"So it's not just me?" Tony says. "This isn't really my area of expertise—" And Bruce can't resist the snort, because 'not my area of expertise' with Tony is more along the lines of 'I've read more about it than most people employed in the field and might as well have a degree, but I just haven't taken the time to actually get the paper diploma'. "—but shouldn't the white cell counts be going _down?_ "

He glances at Bruce again and sits up. "I mean, with the radiation and all..." His words trail off and then he starts gesturing to manipulate the displays and take it all in. Bruce wishes him more success than he's had, but isn't counting on it.

"Well, in typical cases of radiation exposure and poisoning, yes, that would be the case."

Tony flinches at the words "radiation exposure and poisoning" but that is, technically, what they're looking at.

Except it isn't going the way it should.

That's both good and bad news.

"Well this was definitely not a typical case," Tony mutters. "Fucking _Scabel_." His voice goes up in volume as he continues, his hands moving faster and faster as he builds up steam. "Why spiders anyway? Who the hell needs radioactive spiders? Even if this was his end goal, to spread some kind of radioactive venom that increased in the human body, why the hell would you choose spiders? No one voluntarily sits there and lets a spider bite them. Dogs or cats would be much more effective. People will let them do all kinds of shit that would grant exposure. Spiders though, people just kill. Or ignore. But even when they kill it's not by touching them directly, it's with a ten foot pole or a vacuum cleaner or spray. No chance of exposure. Fucking _idiot,"_ he snarls and throws his copy of the display out with a vengeance.

His head drops down again, caught by his upraised hands, fingers tunneling into his already messy hair. He stares at the tabletop, eyes moving back and forth like he's reading something in the surface there.

This is one of the rare times Bruce wishes Tony weren't so goddamned brilliant.

And that he, Bruce, believes in lying to the family of a patient.

It would be nice to say he has some idea of what's going on and that Tony and Steve shouldn't worry, that Peter's going through a rough patch and that it might get worse before it gets better, but that it _will_ get better.

He could actually do that with Steve, whose brain has been enhanced by the serum, true, but who hasn't studied medicine like Bruce and Tony. Besides, Steve still likes to believe that people are being honest, especially people he knows he can trust, and so he'd take that as gospel and nod and relax a little bit because everything was under control.

Tony, though, there's no way to bullshit Tony, short of locking him out of this lab and feeding him false information in another one.

Even then, he'd still probably figure it out and hack into the system and force JARVIS to give him the real data and then he'd stop trusting Bruce and things would get _really_ bad, because you could do a lot of things that Tony would forgive, but lying and manipulation were not among them.

No, a worried Tony working in cooperation is much better than a worried and bitter Tony working in opposition.

Tony shifts the weight of his head to one hand, the fingers of the other digging into his eye sockets and pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs, heavily, and says, "Okay, so white blood cells going up, toxins and radiation going up..." He frowns and lifts his head, pressing his fist into his mouth and drumming his fingers on his skull. "He's fighting it, or, well, trying to," he says, blinking and tilting his head to the side further.

Bruce hates to be the voice of reason, but someone has to be. "Fighting what?" he asks. "The radiation? The venom? Both? And how? And, even if he is fighting it, why is it going _up?"_

That's the biggest conundrum. Trying to fight off the foreign substances in his body is perfectly normal. Succeeding, as the raised white cell count implies, is unusual, but Peter's DNA isn't exactly normal to begin with.

But how the _hell_ is the concentration of toxin and level of radiation increasing?

"Virus."

Tony blinks again and sits up straight, turning to look at Bruce. _"Virus,"_ he repeats.

"Uhhh, nooo? It's not a virus, Tony. First of all, that makes even less sense, and second of all, there's nothing like that in his blood."

Bruce would know, having spent hours looking at it under all levels and types of magnification.

"Nonono, not, like—" Tony sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Not like an _actual_ virus, I'm not saying that. But the behavior is viral in nature."

Bruce frowns.

"You said the serum looked like a vaccine. So what if it's got some component that works like a virus? It's... It's using Peter's body to replicate, or, well, manufacture, the point is the same. The extra toxins and radioactive particles aren't coming in from an outside source and they're sure as hell not already there just waiting to be activated, so something must be producing them."

"Like a virus," Bruce says. And it's still crazy, because biology doesn't work that way, but, well, Bruce has seen whole encyclopedias worth of things biology didn't do come to horrifying life since his own experience turning science on its ear.

Tony's expression is as animated as Bruce has seen it in days—in a good way, not in a destructive way—and there's actually something like hope in his eyes.

Small, a spark more than an actual flicker, but there all the same.

Bruce isn't about to let it die now.

"Okay," he says, shifting on his stool to wake his ass up from the numbness that had settled in some time ago. "Like a virus. Using Peter's own cells to somehow produce the venom and make it radioactive." He inhales, holds it, and blows the breath out slowly.

"I don't know if you can keep calling him an idiot," he says almost absently as he starts making notes on his Pad.

Tony frowns and jerks back at that. "What? Why the hell not?"

Bruce gestures with his stylus. "He may very well have birthed an entirely new branch of science here, Tony. He's irresponsible in how he's using it, but this is not the fruit of idiocy."

Tony's lip curls and his eyes narrow and he almost snarls, but he finally concedes, "Okay, fine." He looks over and says, with complete seriousness, "What about fuckwad? Can I call him a fuckwad?"

Bruce has to swallow a snort. "That's not very politically correct—"

"Flopping dickweasel it is." His attention shifts back to the screens and he squints at one, flipping through items.

"JARVIS, did we run any DNA tests?" Tony asks.

Bruce's eyes snap up to Tony's face at that request.

"We have not, sir," JARVIS says, sounding as wary as Bruce feels.

"Do that."

His eyes come down to meet Bruce's. "Let me know as soon as it's done."

"Of course, sir," JARVIS says.

Tony's gaze drops to the tabletop where his fingers are drumming and then rise to look at the observation room feed where Peter sleeps on.

"I need coffee," he says at last and vanishes from view.

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

 

Peter wakes to the sound of voices. Steve's voice in particular is vibrating just beneath his ear and he realizes he's slumped against his dad's chest, curled up in his lap. That's a little embarrassing, but...nice. At least until it starts stoking the nausea in the pit of his stomach. Ugh.

" _...Bruce, dammit, I don't need you to tell me what we_ can't _do, I need you to tell me what we_ can _._ "

"You can stay calm," Bruce replies, terse.

" _I'm calm_ ," Tony says and Peter would laugh if he had the energy because he's very clearly _not_. " _Who says I'm not calm? I'm perfectly calm. Steve's the one losing his head here. I'm cool as a cucumber._ "

"A cucumber on fire, maybe," Steve says and one of his hands moves to Peter's back, his thumb rubbing circles on his shoulder.

Peter snorts. It makes his whole face ache, right to the roots of his hair.

" _Hey_ ," Tony says. " _Was that movement? Is he awake? Peter? Buddy?_ "

It takes Hulk-suppression level effort to pry his eyes open and the fluorescent lights stab straight into his brain. "Yeah, Dad," he says and it feels like he's talking through a throat lined with crumpled paper.

" _Steve, hey, come on_ ," Tony says, " _get me closer so he doesn't have to strain, pull me around_." Peter's human pillow shifts as Dad does as requested. As soon as he's squared, Tony's expression softens and some of the tension eases away. " _How're you feeling, Bambi?_ "

"Shitty," Peter mumbles and feels more than hears the noise of disapproval Steve makes.

"Language."

"'s true," Peter mutters and grimaces as he shifts. God, it's like he went too far sparring with Aunt Natasha, only _his whole body._ This process has been way longer than he was hoping for.

" _You still nauseous?_ " Tony asks.

"Don't remind me," Peter replies. "How long's I asleep?"

Tony shrugs, fingers tapping. "' _Bout twenty minutes_."

"Okay," Peter croaks. "Just a second." And he heaves himself out of Steve's lap, scrabbling for the basin next to the bed as he gags and chokes until it feels like the muscles in his abdomen are going to rip off of his skeleton. When the spasms finally ease, Peter slumps into his dad's grip, arms shaking so hard he can barely hold on to the basin with his sweat-slicked palms. His face is damp with sweat and maybe tears—that's definitely what's clumping his eyelashes together. Somebody, Bruce maybe, takes the bowl away from him, so he can just pant and try to regroup his strength for a minute without the smell getting him started all over again.

"Peter?" Steve says, quiet and almost tentative.

Peter pushes back, sitting instead of hanging in his dad's grip, and aside from the sharp aching in his wrists and his knees—and okay, pretty much everywhere—he feels a heck of a lot better. Weak as a tissue, but better. He pushes back the sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, wipes his mouth, and tries to smile at the three men watching him with varying expressions of concern. "I'm. I'm good," he says and when Tony's face starts to contort he amends, "Better. That helped. Really."

"I told you this was something that was likely going to happen, Tony. Venom, remember? All his vitals are stable and he'll probably feel really unpleasant for awhile. We're keeping a close eye on it."

" _Yeah, awesome, a close eye_ ," Tony mutters. Peter feels bad that his dads are so worried, but he's not sorry he did it.

~

 

Peter's temperature climbs back up to 103 and he starts throwing up so frequently he's dry-heaving and Betty decides they need to hook him up to an IV to prevent dehydration.

Steve finds it painful to watch him, small, sob-like sounds hiccuping out of him as his body clenches with enough effort to cause him obvious pain. Tony's no better, flinching every time his eyes slip past the window containing the video feed, his eyes glassy. Steve thinks it's probably one of the worst things he's ever endured and he's got a laundry list of things most people would shudder to even think of going through.

He's sitting grimly at Peter's bedside—no longer touching him because Peter complained he was too hot and that the pressure of his hands made him ache—when Peter gags hard enough it wrenches him into the fetal position. Steve leans forward, pressing the basin into the bed as close to him as he can. Peter heaves again and whimpers, clutching at his ribs. Then again and again and again until he's panting into the mattress, tears leaking down both cheeks.

Refysing to ask for hlep

"Dad, please," he moans.

"What do you need?" Steve asks and Peter sniffles, fingers curling around the bedspread.

"It hurts."

Steve moves closer, curling his fingers into fists to keep from reaching for Peter. "We're trying, pal, we are."

~ discussion with avengers???

Tony is striding down the MedBay hall already at twice his usual speed when he hears a scream.  
  
He sprints the rest of the way, slamming through doors, his heart in his throat. "Bruce!" he shouts as he barrels through the last door.  
  
Bruce, Thor, and Betty are all on their feet moving toward the isolation room. Tony shoves his way past them, palms slamming against the glass door hard enough to sting.  
  
Peter lets out a sob-like noise and Tony's chest tightens like a wrung-out rag. he reaches the bed and stops short, not knowing what to do.  
  
Steve is shushing Peter gently, expression pulled taut.  
  
"What is it? What's wrong?" Tony asks and flinches when Peter lets out a choked cry and his back snaps into a rigid line, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets.  
  
"What happened?" Bruce demands in a harried voice.  
  
"Take my hand, Peter, come on," Steve coaxes and with what appears to be Herculean effort, Peter pries his fingers open and clamps them around Steve's, moaning. "I'm going to touch your leg now, all right, pal?"  
  
"No, no, no," Peter begs and grunts, jerking his hand in Steve's as his expression contorts in agony. "It hurts, it hurts."  
  
"I know it does, I just want to see what we're dealing with. I'll be quick."  
  
Peter whimpers, but he nods and Steve reaches one ginger hand to cover the muscle of Peter's calf.  
  
He turns his face into the blankets and screams.  
  
Steve glances up, grim-faced. "Charlie horses. I used to get them as a kid. Never more than one at a time, but it felt the same—rock hard with tension."  
  
"You think he's got _multiple_?" Bruce says and when Peter's shoulders go tense, the skepticism melts out of his expression. "I'll get an IV set up, electrolytes and fluids, maybe that will help."  
  
"Please, dad, please, make it stop, please," Peter begs, voice muffled by the way he's mashed his face into the bed. His voice breaks. "Please."  
  
"What do you need?" Thor asks from behind Tony.  
  
"Heat packs," Steve says. "As many as you can find."  
  
Tony watches helplessly as Steve leans over Peter, assuring him in a low, steady voice while Bruce adds the new things to the IV.  
  
"I know it's hard, but try to breathe, Peter," Steve says, and straightens.  
  
Tony catches him by the wrist. "Give me something to do. There has to be something I can do."  
  
"Come here," Steve says, "up on the bed. Give him something to hold on to."  
  
Peter's curled up on one side of the bed, so after shucking his jacket, it's easy for Tony to scoot onto it next to him.  
  
"Careful where you touch," Steve advises, and then moves away to gather supplies with Thor.  
  
Tony swallows hard and watches Peter's back rise and fall shallowly as he pants, shoulders rigid.  
  
Finally, he makes himself speak. "Hey, Bambi," he says, voice painfully hesitant, "I'm home."  
  
"Dad?" Peter says, his voice high and plaintive. "Make it stop hurting, please, please, Dad."

  
"I am gonna do my damndest, Bambi."  
  
Peter nods and then with an agonized noise, manages to turn himself over, reaching to curl his arm around Tony's waist. "And I thought—I thought one charlie horse was bad," Peter says and laughs shakily.  
  
Tony very gingerly lays a hand on his head, ready to snatch it back if Peter gives any indication he's making things worse.  
  
His breath is hot and damp on Tony's thigh. "I really missed you, Dad," he mumbles.  
  
"I missed you, too, kiddo." He strokes Peter's hair and listens to him whimper and hopes there's something they can do.

~

Steve returns with Thor a few minutes later, laden down with heat packs. He lays them in the chairs beside the bed and says, "Peter, where are you cramping right now?"  
  
"Right leg, lower half, left, top half. M-my right hand." He catches a hitching breath between his shoulder and Tony's thigh, the fingers of his left hand clamping down around Tony's arm. Tony is sitting with Peter sprawled across his legs on his belly. Peter's face is buried against Tony's hip, fingers digging into the bare flesh of Tony's arms.

Steve activates the heat packs with a few quick twists of his wrists and settles them carefully over the parts of Peter's legs where he can see the lump of tightened muscles. Then he sits down next to the bed and reaches for Peter's hand. "The best thing I know for cramps like this is firm, steady pressure. It hurts like hell, but it seems like the quickest way to get the muscle to unwind."

Peter groans. "Just do it, Dad."

Steve nods, steeling himself, and then presses his thumbs into the hard mass of Peter's thumb muscle. Peter jerks and yells, "OW, f—ohmy _god_ , ow ow ow ow." Tears quickly creep into his voice.

Tony doesn't flinch, just bows forward, a ginger hand settling on Peter's back as he murmurs, "I know, buddy, I know," his voice strangled into hoarseness.

Steve firms his lips and keeps working the knot under his fingertips. Peter chokes and tries to bite back more pained sounds, but can't quite smother them unless it's by smothering himself against Tony's side and that only lasts until he has to breathe again.

Steve feels every shuddering breath echo through his own lungs in time with Peter's. He catches Tony's eye, but only briefly, and he couldn't say for sure who broke first.

"That's it," Tony murmurs, hand gently rubbing up and down Peter's back, ruffling and smoothing the cotton of his shirt. "Just keep breathing. Bruce swears by it and if anyone would know if it helps, he would." Tony sucks air in noisily through his nose, then blows it back out slowly through pursed lips. Steve finds himself unconsciously following along, and eventually Peter is able to mostly match them. It's still unsteady and his nose is obviously clogged with snot and tears, so he has to sniff occasionally between breaths, but he's doing his damnedest to keep up.

After a few minutes of this, Steve sets Peter's hand back down on the bed and moves to where he can draw Peter's leg up into his lap. The cramp hasn't completely dissipated, but it's not the only one and maybe he'll have better luck on a bigger muscle. The rhythm of their shared breathing is broken by the hiss of pain and a whimper, and Peter brings his newly freed hand up to cover his eyes, though it still looks stiff with pain. Steve feels like someone has grabbed his heart and given a solid yank as a tear trails down Peter's cheek from under his hand. He sniffs deeply, then tries to find the rhythm of the breaths again.

"In with me," Tony says, and inhales deeply. "Out with me. You're doing great, kiddo."

Steve lightly, but firmly, wraps his fingers around Peter's knee and ankle and slowly pulls on the limb to extend it. "Oh ow! Dad! Stop! That _hurts_ ," Peter pleads, voice cracking. He scrabbles to get a grip on Steve's fingers and tries to pry them loose, but gives up almost immediately, instead shifting his body to follow the leg and curl forward.

"Tony," Steve says, evenly, but at great cost.

"Shit. Okay. Come on, Pete, lay back for me," Tony coaches, hands on Peter's shoulders.

"No," Peter says. "I don't want to. Please. That hurts more. Oh God, just let me— Owowowow!" He jerks and pushes at Tony's hands and is able to escape, lurching forward and wrapping an arm around his thigh to pull it back in.

"Peter, we're trying to— I know, this seems backwards, I told your dad he was full of shit the first time he tried this on me, but I swear it will help. We just have to get the muscle extended so it can relax." But all of Tony's attempts to move Peter are futile and he gives up. He turns his confused gaze on Steve who frowns back. Peter's always been a little more fit than expected for his age, and in the last few years Tony's ability to out-muscle him has begun to wane, but not so much that he can't budge the kid at all. And with his being sick, they should be on a much more level playing field.

"Peter," Steve says, letting off the tug-of-war for a moment and leaning forward. "Hey, Peter, look at me."

It takes a few moments for the tightly closed eyelids to separate enough to show a sliver of red and brown, but Steve waits. In the meantime he rubs Peter's shoulder, small circles over the trembling joint.

"You know I love you, right?"

Peter nods and lifts his head more. "Yeah, of course, Dad. I'm not— I know you aren't trying to hurt me, it's just…"

"I know," Steve says, smiling sadly. He shifts his hand up to the back of Peter's neck and squeezes lightly. "The very last thing I want to do is cause you more pain. But this will help. It hurts a little more at first, but it's over faster. I promise." He lets one corner of his lips curl upward and says in a conspiratorial whisper, "Your dad was a huge baby when I first did this with him." He looks up to see Tony playing along with a suspicious stare. "Let's show him how it's done, what do you say?"

Peter laughs and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I shouldn't let you think this kind of reverse psychology manipulation still works on me, but…" He swallows. "Okay."

Steve squeezes his neck again and presses a kiss to his forehead. "That's the spirit." Leaning back and taking up his holds on Peter's leg again he says, "We can go as slow as you need to."

Peter's fingers are just next to Steve's and white all the way through the knuckle, but he doesn't stop. Even when he grits his teeth, the tears dripping from his cheeks and chin, and throws his head back on a strangled cry, he doesn't stop.

Tony's got one hand on the back of Peter's head, thumb ruffling the hair as it sweeps back and forth and the other on his shoulder, kneading as he steadies Peter's balanced position.

"There we go. Don't forget to breathe, Peter," Tony reminds him, and Peter makes an aborted sound of complaint at that, but obediently purses his lips to blow out his shaking breath. "Good," Tony says. "Good."

When his leg is fully extended, Peter says, "Okay. Now wha— Oh. _Oh_ ," and abruptly relaxes the limb across Steve's lap. "Wow," he says, sounding almost drugged with the relief. It's only one of his many aches, but it's obviously enough to momentarily overshadow the rest. Peter laughs and smiles lazily. "You weren't kidding about— _NGURK_!" He jackknifes up, hand wrapped around his ankle and then the most horrifying _wail_ of pain escapes his throat, a sound so harsh Steve can feel his own throat spasm in sympathy. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he repeats frantically, pitch rising with each repetition. He's also rocking in place and Steve's half afraid he's going to hurt his ankle the way he's squeezing it.

"What is it?" Tony demands and Peter can only make a broken sound as he pants, even his words lost to him.

"Foot cramp?" Steve asks, and Peter's head jerks tightly, sweat beading on his brow and flying free with the movement.

"Here," Steve says, pushing down his own fear at the way it's getting worse with each minute, not better, "let me—" He doesn't do more than brush the skin before Peter's falling backwards onto Tony, back arching and hands retracting like birds' wings. His fingers clutch spasmodically at the air, bent into claws, but he doesn't seem to be reaching for anything specifically, just grasping in reflex as he writhes on the bed.

"What the hell!" Tony snarls in frustration and worry, getting his hands on Peter's biceps to steady him, but unable to really restrain him.

He looks like he's having a seizure, not the quiet zoned out thing of before that Steve found utterly terrifying, but a fresh new horror from the other end of the scale.

"Banner!" Thor bellows, sticking his head out the door and Steve had forgotten he was there, but now he's grateful for it as Tony adjusts his grip and cradles Peter against his chest, speaking softly but urgently to him. Steve is too busy helping hold Peter's legs, supporting Tony by keeping Peter from rolling off the bed as best he can.

Unlike the other seizure, Peter seems to still be with them mentally, but that's little comfort when all he can do is beg and plead with them to stop the pain.

"I'm here, Bambi," Tony says, "I'm right here. I've got you. I've got you."

Peter cries out and thrashes the other way, twisting into a position that cannot be comfortable, but that Peter can't seem to help either.

"Is it your back?" Tony asks. "Peter, is your back hurting you?"

Peter very nearly headbutts Tony in the chin as he nods, still writhing and twisting, but unable to escape the pain even for a moment.

"Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop," he sobs, face red with the exertion, veins in his neck and face standing out in vivid relief. "Dad," Peter pleads. "Dad, _make it stop_."

"We're trying," Tony promises. "We're trying. We called Bruce and he'll figure this out. He's smart like that."

"I appreciate the compliment," Bruce says as he enters just in time to catch the words, going straight for the bed and catching Peter's hand in the air, "and I will do my best. Can you tell me specifically where it hurts, Peter?" He's glancing between the clock and Peter's face, his fingers following the motion of Peter's wrist without losing his grip as he takes a pulse.

"Everywhere," Peter whines. "It just hurts… everywhere." He chokes and gags and Tony curses, but Bruce just turns and grabs one of the kidney-shaped basins and holds it out.

"Here," he says, and Tony grimaces, but gets it into position as Bruce goes back to his examination. He's palpating Peter's arms, feeling all the way up to the shoulder on the left, then down to the wrist on the right. Peter occasionally makes a pained sound as he gags, but he doesn't actually throw anything up.

"Excuse me," Bruce says with a flicker of a smile at Steve, working around him to repeat the series of squeezes up and back down Peter's legs. He steps back when he's done and frowns. "Keep doing what you're doing. I'll be back."

"Hold on," Tony says, stopping Bruce at the door. "Can't you give him anything for the pain?"

Bruce grimaces but shakes his head. He looks at Peter as he says, "I'm sorry. Until we've finished the analysis on whatever was in that injection, I don't want to risk interactions. As bad as this is, I'd hate to make it worse."

Tony pales and Peter obviously can't help the whimper at that and gags again before saying, "Please no. Oh God, no."

For his part, Steve is feeling more than a little nauseated at the idea of it getting worse. Whether that means fatally so or just more agonizing, he doesn't know and he doesn't really want to know. Either way, he agrees that waiting is better for now.

Tony's got his arms wrapped around Peter who has begun to relax from the strained position of before, propped up against Tony's chest as he gasps for breath. What were fine tremors before are now visible trembles that race up and down his body at regular intervals. He still twitches a limb now and again, reflexively drawing it close before forcibly stopping the movement and gritting his teeth with the effort to straighten it back out. The result is that he's laid out on the bed, but he looks like he's being pulled that way by unseen forces.

Steve busies himself rearranging the heat packs that have been knocked askew, accepting a few from Thor that had been tossed to the ground. Tony's keeping up the hug and rocking slightly, kissing Peter's head and talking in a murmur that even Steve can't make out from here. He doubts it's anything really earth-shattering, probably just nonsense, and more for the sound than anything.

Peter's eyes are closed as he breathes in and out, and when that begins to steady and smooth out, it's a noticeable change.

As is the blood leaching back into his hands where they'd been gripping Tony's forearms. Steve feels the tension drain out of himself in a rush when Peter goes totally limp, sucking in wet little gasps. Tony bends over him, sheltering, murmuring, "There you go, that's it, champ. God, you're a tough kid. Something else, you know that? Take after your dad."

"I don't—ever wanna do that again," Peter says in a quavering voice.

Tony's eyes go extra glossy and he squeezes him, pressing a rough kiss into his hair. "Hey, it's all right," he says thickly, "I fix stuff, that's what I do. I can—I can figure something out, I'm sure I can."

Peter takes a shaky, wet breath and nods into Tony's stomach, where he's slid down to, his eyes obviously growing heavy. "Okay."

For the first time since the arrival of the note, Steve feels a little flutter of hope in his chest. That's right, Tony fixed Pepper after the Mandarin dosed her with Extremis. If he could do that after starting when he was drunk and so much younger, surely he can fix whatever's been done to Peter now.

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

 

Peter drops off to sleep, one hand dangling over the rise of Tony's thigh.

"Well, that was equable to the first or second level of hell," Tony mutters and slumps back into the bed. God, he's tired. The adrenaline from the burst of panic when he first arrived is dwindling and as it goes it's sapping his strength.

Steve sighs and rubs his forehead, letting his arms hang into his lap. He looks exhausted and heartsick and Tony's own aching heart twinges for him, but it's a far off feeling.

While Steve gathers himself, Tony surveys Peter's body, forcing himself to make the effort to lift his hand and look at the now white-ringed site of the bite and then skimming up his shirtsleeve to get a look at the reddened spot where the serum went in.

He quickly covers it back up, curling his hand over it like that will make it less real. He swallows thickly.

"So," Steve says, and Tony starts, eyes snapping up. His nose tickles with moisture and he tries to cover up a sniffle with the nonchalant swipe of his hand. Steve doesn't seem to notice. One of his shoulders hitches in a faint shrug. "How are you doing?"

It sounds like a question even more than it should and it's so ridiculous Tony lets out a bark of laughter. "I'm _dandy_ , how're you?"

"I've been better," Steve admits with a wry crook of his mouth. Then he really looks at Tony and his whole face softens, gentles. He stands and leans to kiss Tony, a chaste, cursory peck.

His red-rimmed eyes meet Tony's when he pulls back and an instant later he presses forward for another, desperate this time. Tony's eyes are sliding closed when Bruce clears his throat and says wryly, "There's probably a better place for this, don't you think?"

Tony's hands tighten a little around Peter's arm and back and he drags his mouth away from Steve's. "I was just gonna get up and come into the lab—"

Bruce shakes his head. "No, you both need to go rest. Serious rest. Its been a long forty-eight hours and you can't help him if you're exhausted."

Tony's face sets stubbornly, but Bruce holds up a hand, "it's trite and you don't want to hear it, but it's true, Tony. I need you at the top of your game— _Peter_ needs you at the top of your game and despite what you may tell others I know very well that you are, in fact, human and do, in fact, _not_ work best when you're riding the edge of sleep deprivation."

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve says heatedly and Tony shoots a look at Bruce to say _oh-ho-yeah, I'd like to see you talk him down right now._

Bruce ignores him—rude—and crosses his arms, jaw-firming. "Steve, I _can_ make you go, if I have to."

  
Steve's nostrils flare. "You wouldn't."

Bruce tilts his chin down and looks Steve dead in the eye through the top edge of his glasses. "Wouldn't I?"

A muscle in Steve's jaw ticks, his shoulders tense as a wire in contrast to the easy slope of Bruce's. They stare at one another for a good minute before Steve finally cracks. "Six hours."

Bruce shakes his head. "Ten."

"Ten hours!" Tony protests. "Come on, we're old men, Bruce, we're never gonna sleep ten hours."

"Okay," Bruce concedes, taking his glasses off and tapping one arm against his chin. "Nine."

"That's almost—" Steve starts, but Bruce just tilts his head and says, "Guys, out of the three of us, who is the experienced medical doctor?"

Steve's jaw clamps down, refusing to answer, so it's Tony left to mutter sullenly, "You."

"Thank you. Now I'm not going to ask again."

Tony sighs theatrically because he can't be seen giving in too easily or they'll be on him all the time and he'll never get any work done. He hefts Peter with a grunt, feeling a pang of worry when he barely shifts at the movement, and slides off of the bed, wincing as the knee that was trapped under Peter's body protests. Steve's brow sets into a solid line and he says, "If he wakes up, I want to know."

"Go on," Bruce says, eyebrows on his forehead as he tilts his head toward the door. "Out."

"How come Thor gets to stay?" Tony complains as he and Steve shuffle-hobble out of the isolation room.

"Because I know the lab's going to need a bouncer otherwise you'll be back in here in no time."

"Sleep is overrated," Tony grumbles, but it's really, really not, and the thought of the bed upstairs, cool and smooth against his skin— He bites his lip to keep from groaning.

Bruce closes the lab door behind them with finality and says, "Goodnight, guys."

"Yeah, yeah, night, you neo-Nazi."

Steve turns back, worry lining his features as he peers through the glass to Peter, pale and slack against the stark white sheets of the bed. He stares for a long moment, his hands curled into fists, and Tony reaches for his hand, brushing his fingers over the ridges of Steve's knuckles. Steve's hand opens on reflex and he pulls his eyes away as Tony slots their fingers together. Tony rubs his free hand over one eye and says, "We don't have to sleep. We could...we could go to the bad. The lab. I can pull up a feed and we can—"

Steve sighs and Tony blinks at the feeling of one of Steve's broad hands curving around his neck; he'd closed his eyes without even realizing. "Tony, you look ready to drop," he says quietly. "Have you even sobered up?"

Tony shrugs, rubbing the jersey fabric of Steve's t-shirt between his fingers. "Ah—that's...debatable. It's kinda hard to tell right now, 'cause everything's a little unstable, a little whirly-gig-like, and that could be literal or y'know, alcohol-related, or exhaustion because, god, I'm tired. I'm, like, record-levels of tired, here. I _feel_ like I'm gonna drop." He lets his head fall against Steve's chest and feels it rise and fall in another sigh. Steve's fingers stroke the base of his skull and Tony very nearly zonks out on him right there.

"Been a rough coupla days, huh?" Steve murmurs and Tony snorts. Steve kisses his forehead. "Come on, let's get you upstairs."

They walk to the elevator in silence, where Tony leans back against the rear wall and lets his head fall back against it with a sigh. "What a nightmare," he mutters. His eyes flutter back open a second later when Steve steps into his personal space, hands cupping Tony's jaw. He leans his body into Tony's and that's enough to make his breath catch. Steve all but envelops him and Tony reaches around his waist to pull him closer and make sure he doesn't get away.

Steve kisses him like it's an apology, hands gripping his shoulders tight, and Tony sags a little more into the wall, mouth opening on a groan. Steve licks inside, moving to tug Tony's shirt free of his slacks, and slipping his hands up underneath once that's done. He spreads his fingers out over Tony's ribs. Shivers race over Tony's skin in every direction.

When he arches a little into Steve's hands, he gets pinned even more firmly against the wall, a zing of electricity plummeting straight to his groin.

It's been—Jesus, it's been _weeks_ since the last time and sex hasn't even been so much as a blip on his radar with all this shit with Peter and Australia; it feels unbelievable to have Steve's hands on him again.

Steve moves his mouth to Tony's throat and he sucks in a juddering breath, fingers tightening in the fabric of Steve's shirt. "God, god, _Steve_. I missed you; didn't even _know_ I missed you, which is awful, but— _hha-ah!"_

Steve's tongue slides over his carotid, silk-soft fingers brushing his nipples and Tony's hips jerk. He drops his hands, clenching them around Steve's ass to have something to hold onto and Steve's mouth pulls free of his neck, a groan washing hot, damp air over Tony's collarbones.

"Yeah," Tony says and feels a flush creep across the bridge of his nose as he looks at the pink spread over Steve's. He squeezes again, deliberately this time and Steve moans, his hips rolling. _God_ , he needs this.

All he can reach right now with Steve towering over him the way he is is the base of Steve's throat, but there's more than enough skin there for him to suck on and when he combines that with one hand gliding over Steve's ass from stem to stern, he gets the desired tensing of Steve's whole body, _"Tony_ ," on his lips. "I want to—"

"Yeah," Tony breathes, "yeah, I want it, too."

Steve huffs out a laugh and reaches up to brush the backs of his fingers over the stubble on Tony's jaw with a level of fondness that makes Tony's heart stutter. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

Tony shakes his head and hooks one leg around Steve so he can grind up against him.

Steve's legs nearly buckle.

"Don't care," Tony says breathlessly. "Want it. Whatever it is, I want it."

Steve lets out a shivery moan. "What if I want to stop?"

"You don't," Tony replies, calling his bluff. "You started it." He rolls his hips again and the friction feels _so good._

"Sirs," JARVIS says suddenly, drawling, "Perhaps there is somewhere better suited for what you are about to do?"

Both he and Steve make annoyed noises. "Why are you trying to ruin this moment, J?"

"It's not like we haven't had sex in the elevator before," Steve complains.

Tony's too busy shoving Steve out of the elevator to hear what JARVIS says in reply. Holy hell, it turns him on when Steve says shit like that so casually. Every step is torture because he's hard enough that even his slacks are uncomfortable and he wants so badly to get his hands on Steve and make him just— _lose it._

Steve turns when they've nearly made it to the bedroom door and drags Tony close, kissing him until he sees light sparking behind his eyelids.

"What are you doing, why are we stopping?" Tony breathes and Steve smiles, his eyes dark to the edges and his lips swollen.

"Who's stopping?" he says and stoops in one swift gesture, hauling Tony up and over his shoulder. Tony's stomach drops like a rollercoaster as Steve straightens, eliciting a burst of startled laughter. Steve strokes his ass in a way that makes him jerk, one leg kicking involuntarily.

"No fair!" he yells and swats at Steve's ass in return.

"Don't make me drop you."

"You wouldn't dare."

Which, it turns out, is the wrong thing to say, because they're in the bedroom now and Steve does in fact drop him onto the bed, his stomach swooping again.

"Ass," he says, even as he's sitting up and reaching for Steve.

Steve crawls onto the bed, knees on either side of Tony's legs and he takes one of Tony's outstretched hand, kissing the palm. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he says and Tony grabs for him, pulling him down like a blanket.

"God, you're sappy," he murmurs. After a split-second pause, he adds, "I love you. I love that about you. That and your ass. Your ass is _sublime—_ "

Steve glows, ignoring the attempts to disguise the emotional bits. "I love you, too," he murmurs in return, lips brushing Tony's. He follows the declaration with a proper kiss and then a filthy one, one that makes Tony writhe under him, scrabbling at his clothing.

"Come on, _come on_ , Steve."

Steve helps him peel off his shirt and okay, yeah, there has been a _serious_ _imbalance_ in their lives because Tony's pretty sure he hasn't seen this in, like, an eon. The skin is smooth and perfect, fine blond hairs thickest in the center of his chest—where the arc reactor would go if he needed it instead of Tony—and fading outward, to hairless shoulders. Tony presses the palm of one hand over his heart, wiggling his fingers so the hair slips up between them, tickling the webs of skin. He rests his hand there a second, marveling at the steady, sturdy _badump-badump-badump_ of Steve's heart. He's a feat of engineering. Biological engineering, but engineering, nevertheless. Perfectly formed from head to toe and at least some of that perfection was passed onto Peter.

That thought nearly bowls Tony over with relief. Steve's genes are strong enough in Peter that they keep his blood samples in high security vaults—they won't even let Fury get his hands on them and if that doesn't say something about the power they think is contained there, then what could?

Peter's going to be okay; Steve's genes will make sure of it.

Right now he's going to show Steve just how grateful he is Peter is theirs.

He leans up on one elbow, tugging lightly at the strands between his fingers and Steve leans forward to meet him, tongue sliding over Tony's lower lip.

Knowing that they're actually going to do this, that Steve's on board and he's on board and Peter's passed out downstairs and their schedules are cleared makes Tony's skin prickle with anticipation, his muscles warm and loose with the knowledge that he's going to get that release he's aching for and it's going to be _good_ after the wait.

He reaches for Steve's fly as Steve kisses him and Steve moans, low, into his mouth when he gets his fingers on the zipper and pulls it down. Tony manages to tug the khakis down around Steve's thighs before they refuse to go any further and he whines. "Goddammit."

Steve laughs and leans forward onto his elbows so their faces are lined up next to one another, Steve's nose pressed into his shoulder and their chests just brushing. He uses one hand to shimmy out of the pants, somehow managing to do so without kneeing Tony in the spleen. He reaches for the briefs he's wearing, too, and Tony grabs his wrist.

"No, mine," he says, practically salivating at the sight of the head of Steve peeking out of the slit.

"Tony," he protests, but Tony covers his mouth with a hand.

"My present, I get to unwrap it."

Steve rolls his eyes, but they're crinkled with amusement. Then he reaches for Tony's shirt buttons.

"Me or you?" Tony asks while he works. Steve's eyes flick up from his task. His lips press together reflexively and he doesn't answer right away. A hard choice, Tony knows. He's not sure either.

Steve's brow furrows as he considers. He's finished with the buttons before he says, "You. I want..." He searches for the words, but can't seem to find the right ones. Tony's pretty sure he knows what Steve needs anyway. "Do you mind?"

"Hell no," Tony breathes, ass already clenching in anticipation.

Steve pushes the shirt off of his shoulders and Tony surges up to kiss him. It's messy and a little bit painful when he accidentally drives his lip into Steve's teeth, but he just digs his fingers into Steve's shoulders and kisses him harder. Steve lifts his weight off of Tony long enough to get his slacks undone and then with a few sharp tugs, yanks them free of his body and tosses them to the floor.

"You are unbearably sexy."

Steve smiles, a little devilish and Tony, idiot that he is, doesn't realize why until Steve's hand is wrapped around him and he's arching up off the bedspread, gasping.

Oh, fuck, how had he forgotten how good this feels?

Steve strokes a few times until his brain's spitting sparks and while his body is disappointed when Steve releases him, he's grateful because he's looking forward to getting that present unwrapped. He wiggles until Steve lets him slip out from under him while he turns over onto his back. "It's been awhile," Steve observes and Tony gives him a look.

"You're telling me. I feel like I've forgotten what you look like under all those pristine clothes."

Steve's expression turns earnest and worried. "Do you think I've got wrinkles?"

Tony slaps him across the ribs and Steve's expression cracks, breaks into laughter. "You're an asshole," Tony declares.

"I have one," Steve corrects.  
  
"I regret teaching you to be cheeky."

"You didn't teach me, Tony," Steve says. "It just took you awhile to catch on to it."

Tony pays him no mind, focusing on sliding his fingers under the hems of the legs of Steve's briefs, the way Steve's unblemished skin feels under his fingertips; the soft, stretchy fabric over the backs of his knuckles.  
  
He loves the way Steve shifts restlessly, occasionally breathing in through his open mouth.

"Tony," he says, half plea and half order.

Tony blinks and realizes he's teasing the curls hidden under Steve's briefs, gaze intent on the wet spot growing near the waistband. "Sorry," he says, and means it. "Got caught up. Love watching you come undone."

Steve closes his eyes, his lower lip curling in as he wets it with his tongue and Tony makes a low noise of want.

"Like _that_ , holy cow, are you doing this on purpose? I didn't mean to tease, it's just been forever and I forgot how good you look in bed, honestly— _mmff_."

Steve releases him just enough for their mouths to part and breathes, "If you don't get the underwear _right now_ , I will."

"Okay," Tony breathes back, dipping his head forward to get another kiss and then another, his hands fumbling at the waistband. "Sure, I can—thank you."

Steve drops his ass back down to the bed and Tony flings his underwear off to the side. He clambers into Steve's lap, spreading his legs out over Steve's thighs and planting his heels over his tailbone. When he leans in to kiss him, Steve moans.

"Lube," Tony says, "lube, lube, lube, where's the goddamn lube?"

He nearly yanks the drawer out of the bedside table in his determination, but the bottle of lube comes rattling out of the back and he grabs it with a triumphant, "Aha!"

Steve takes it from him and coats his fingers, before reaching with both hands to cup Tony's ass, gingerly spreading him open. Tony hisses when the light flick of his fingers causes a jolt of arousal so strong it verges on the edge of pain.

"C'mon, c'mon," Tony urges, but it's his turn to wait while Steve teases, his mouth working along Tony's jawline and down the length of his neck.

When he finally slides a finger in, Tony can _feel_ the stretch, the slight burn that tells him it really has been every bit as long as it seems.

"Hey," Steve says, one enormous hand sliding from his ribs to his waist. "Breathe, Tony."

"Right, sure," Tony says and inhales, feeling some of the tension and resistance bleed out of him.

"I won't hurt you," Steve says and Tony rolls his eyes.

"I know you won't, don't be stupid. I just—" His eyes flutter shut, fingers tightening on Steve's skin when he makes a circling gesture. "Wow. Do that a—" He sucks in a breath as Steve obediently does as he's told, a shiver shooting straight up his spine. Steve breathes out a low, needy, moan.

"Hurry up," Tony orders, nudging him with one heel. "You're torturing us both."

Steve nods against his shoulder, flushed and pupils blown, and starts opening Tony up in earnest. He works with a sense of purpose and urgency, but without rushing, using ludicrous amounts of lube and careful movements until he's got two broad fingers inside Tony up to the second knuckle. When Tony's shuddering on every motion, Steve eases him down onto his back and wipes his hand cursorily on the sheets only to reapply lube a second later to coat himself.

"C'mon, Jesus, give it to me already, Steve," Tony moans, grabbing at him fruitlessly. He feels the tip of Steve's dick touch him and he swallows hard, getting one handful of the short hairs at the base of Steve's neck. "Yesssss," he hisses as Steve sinks inside, panting and trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

Tony pulls at his hair and Steve mutters, "Ow, Tony, okay, I get the picture."

Then he lets himself go a little and in one liquid thrust he's buried inside Tony.

The surprise of it, and the sharp, sudden feeling of being _stuffed full_ makes Tony cry out. "Oh, hell," Steve says, his voice breaking just a little, "you feel so good, Tony."

"Just wait," Tony says, and he rolls his hips. The second thrust feels better than the first and the one after that is good enough Tony sees lights on the backs of his eyelids, a moan slipping involuntarily from his chest.

Steve embraces it in the most literal sense of the word, curling himself around Tony, one arm braced protectively over the top of his head, the other his side. He feels utterly surrounded by Steve and years ago it would have annoyed the shit out of him, but now he just clings and lets himself feel safe for five goddamn seconds. "Tony, Tony, Tony," Steve chants with every breathless thrust of his hips.

"Oh, fuck," he cries, the head of his cock catching between their stomachs. Steve recreates the motion again and he moans incoherently.

They start to move more frantically, Tony desperately rolling his body up to try and get the friction he needs and Steve riding close to the edge. Tony takes handfuls of his ass and squeezes, murmuring into the underside of Steve's chin, "Come, Steve, let me see you."

  
His breath stutters and he jerks forward inside Tony, his mouth falling open in a wordless, soundless expression of extraordinary pleasure. His face is totally flooded pink and it's the most gorgeous thing Tony's ever seen.

For a second after the orgasm, he lies on top of Tony, shuddering and hips stuttering forward torturously. Then he picks himself up, kisses Tony squarely on the mouth, and slides down his body, making Tony moan with the loss. Before he's even formed the thought to complain, Steve replaces it with three fingers, and the wet heat of his mouth envelops Tony's prick.

He sucks and strokes at Tony's prostate and in a few short seconds he's throwing his head back, yelling his release, his whole back bowing up off the bed. Steve strokes him through it until it's too much and Tony pushes him off, every muscle in his body twitching.

"Oh, god. Oh my god. Steve. _Shit._ " He laughs, the rush of endorphins making him giddy and Steve's mouth curls in a heavy-lidded smile. Tony's giggles get worse when he turns to the side and notices come oozing down Steve's chin. "You're pretty," he declares and swipes it off with his thumb, which he then wipes clean with his tongue.

Steve's eyes follow the movement, his eyes dark.

Tony grins at him and leans forward to peck his mouth with a kiss. "I am never gonna stop enjoying the fact that you're finally having to deal with _wanting_ to do it again and not being able."

"That's because you're an ass," Steve reminds him.

"You'd be smug, too, if your husband had twice your stamina despite being a hundred goddamn years old. It's about time you learn what it's like to be an old man." Tony flicks him in the ribs. "I'm also going to ignore that extremely rude comment and graciously go get something to clean up with, before this shit solidifies and we have to solder it off."

He rolls out of bed and hisses, hobbling the first few steps.

"Tony?" Steve calls, a note of worry in his voice.

"I'm fine," he calls back. "Just a little sore, no biggie." He wipes his ass in the bathroom because come and slick is sluggishly making it's way down his inner thighs and then takes a second to dab at it with TP just to make sure—no blood, so nothing to worry about. He digs up a washcloth and dampens it with hot water. When he emerges, Steve is sitting up, rubbing one hand in his hair. It's a mess and he's still flushed all the way to the sheet in his lap, a wine-red hickey starting to show over his collarbone. Tony is the luckiest son of a bitch in the universe.

"Tony, are you sure you're all right?" he says, expression anxious.

"I'm fantastic," Tony replies, kneeling on the bed and swiping the cloth over Steve's chin.

"Tony," he protests, trying to pull free.

"Seriously, Steve, I'm fine, I promise. I checked, there's no blood. I'm just sore because it's been almost a month since the last time you reamed my ass."

Steve flushes, shuddering a little as Tony wipes him clean. When he's finished, he drops the washcloth on the floor next to the bed and curls his hand around the back of Steve's neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

Steve sighs and wraps his arms around Tony's waist, almost too tight. Tony clutches right back, tucking his face into Steve's neck. He's asleep before his next breath exits his body.

~ Chapter Seventeen ~

 

The next morning Tony wakes slowly, by increments, and the first thing he really registers is the strong, steady ache in his hips. Actually, his ass is pretty sore, like—oh right. Realization makes him grin and he wriggles a little, enjoying the twinges he feels in various just-got- _laid_ muscle groups. The bed shifts along his side and he reluctantly drags his eyes open.

Steve smiles, one arm curled around the pillow his head is resting on. "Hi."

The window shades slide back, morning light washing all the color from Steve's skin. His voice is low and sleep rough and the sound of it makes something deep inside Tony shiver. "Hi," Tony murmurs, reaching over to flick Steve's nipple, "are you just watching me sleep, you creepy old man?"

Steve rolls his eyes and Tony loves the perfect twenty-two degree angle of his nose. The ten degree quirk of his lips is even better. "You're easier to read when you're asleep."

Tony frowns and glances away. He sits up abruptly. "What time is it?"

"Half-past four," Steve sighs.

Tony groans and flops back down, hissing when his back twinges, sucking the breath out of him. When he gets it back, he breathes, "Bruce isn't gonna let us back in now, is he?"

"I already tried," Steve admits, pressing a hand into Tony's aching back. "Thor knocked me out with the lightning and dragged me back up here."

"He _electrocuted you?_ " Tony demands.

"Tased me, essentially," Steve says and he looks infuriatingly blasé about it. "Only, you know, more powerful."

"Okay, they're getting a little power- _mad_ ," Tony mutters, staring up at the ceiling. He chews his lip. "You know, we could probably get in there if I— JARVIS—"

JARVIS interrupts before he can even get the question out. "Doctor Banner has engaged the safety protocols, sir. Should you attempt to enter the isolation room before 6:03 AM, the room will initiate lock down procedures."

"Completely power-mad, Steve," Tony says, incredulous. "Unbelievable."

"Why do you think I'm still in bed?" Steve says.

Tony makes a mock-scandalized noise. "You're not here because of _me?_ "

Steve nuzzles in to the crook of his neck. "You're the reason I stayed in bed instead of going to try Thor again."

Tony tilts his head back with a grudging hum and allows him more room to press a kiss into his throat. Tony's floating on a cloud of tingling sensation, eyes drifted half-closed again when Steve murmurs into the tender skin below his ear, "How are you doing, really, Tony?"

Well, there go his happy feelings.

"Can we not?" he says, turning away from Steve and his absurdly blue eyes and the sad tilt of of his eyebrows. He presses his hands down over his head and tries to pretend like everything's the way it was thirteen seconds ago. Without Steve breathing against his skin, it's hard.

When he says, "I think we should," it's impossible.

He slips out of bed, evading Steve's hand, and heads for the toilet. "I made it my life's mission to ignore phrases that start that way and you're not going to change me now. You promised in your vows that you wouldn't try to change me."

Of course, evading Steve has never, and likely will never, be that easy.

"I did, but, Tony, you know that's not what I want. We agreed back when we first started dating that the only way this was ever going to work was for us to talk. Because you and I are both far too capable of misinterpreting what's going on with someone else. So… talk to me. Please."

Tony stares at the ceiling while he pisses and hates the crawling sense of guilt on the back of his neck. Steve's just trying to help. He grimaces and flushes the toilet, crossing to the sink to give his hands a cursory wash.

When he steps back into the doorway, Steve is sitting at the end of the bed, pulling on a pair of slacks.

Tony rubs at his forehead. "This isn't... I'm not not talking to you. I talk all the time. I'm talking right now, babbling, so can we just let it drop?"

Steve looks at him, elbows coming to rest on his knees. "I'd like to hear about Australia, Tony."

He snaps. " _Just relax about it, would you?"_

Steve is silent and Tony knows if he hadn't already shown his hand, that right there laid his cards out.

"I don't want to talk about it," he insists and his goddamn voice cracks. _This is why_.

"Tony," Steve says in his gravest, most solemn Captain's voice, "you don't have to hide from me."

What modicum of control Tony has starts to slip, and he blinks hard, turning back toward the bathroom.

"Don't do that," Steve says, his voice sharpening in an instant. Tony hears him get to his feet and has to work appallingly hard not to flinch, then even harder when Steve's hand touches his shoulder. His voice softens, turns pleading. "Tony, it's just me."

The worst part is that should reassure him. He shrinks away from Steve's hand, eyes closing in shame even as he does it. The feeling magnifies as he steps away from Steve. "I'm not gonna do this," he says, voice strangled into hoarseness.

He leaves him standing there alone.

~

 

Steve sinks down onto the end of the bed when Tony disappears into the bathroom and drops his head into his hands. _Well handled, Rogers._

He slams a fist into the mattress, but the special foam absorbs all the shock of it, takes all the satisfaction out of it. He closes his eyes and breathes through the rush of anger. When he opens them again, Tony's crossing from the bathroom to the closet, pretending like Steve's not there.

The sharpness of the anger sours with hurt and Steve reminds himself that it's not him Tony's ignoring, not really. He watches Tony pick out clothes, feeling small and alone. He pushes himself to his feet and shuffles into the closet, too. He doesn't look at Tony, now. If that's what he needs, what he wants, then...he'll try to give it to him.

He pulls a shirt over his head and threads a belt through the loops of his pants, hyper-aware of Tony moving around just a few feet away. On his way out of the closet, Tony passes close enough Steve can feel the air shift. He bites down his frustration and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave.

When he finishes and goes out to the kitchen, Tony's leaned up against the counter drinking coffee and staring at a holographic screen that throws off pale blue light, making the bags under his eyes look even heavier. Steve carries on pretending not to see him while being painfully aware of every shift of his feet, every flick of his wrist, every eye blink. He makes toast and eggs and some porridge and eats in silence.

Tony never once glances his way.

After the food's gone, Tony wanders into the living room, flicking the display over ahead of him. Steve goes to the sink and washes his dishes. He's supposed to go to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ today to train a batch of new recruits. Tony's back and with Pepper in Australia, it's unlikely he'll be going anywhere but the lab. He could do it without feeling like he's abandoning Peter.

His stomach flips over, unpleasantly slow.

It doesn't feel right. To carry on, business as usual with Peter as sick as he is and someone out there who made him that way. But what else is he supposed to do? Clint is the only one who really knows anything about Scabel and it's not like he's going to be any help trying to make Peter better.

He's still going back and forth about it when the silence is broken.

"Hey. Um...it's, ah. Six."

Steve blinks and stares at the dish he's been washing for...well, he's not sure how long it's been. Long enough. "Okay," he says and quickly rinses the plate off, setting it aside in the dish rack.

When he turns around, Tony's got his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor at his feet. Steve dries his hands and hangs the towel, then crosses over and heads for the elevator. He doesn't wait for Tony and doesn't look back to see if he's coming.

JARVIS waits for him though, the doors closing after he's boarded the elevator and joined Steve at the rear with his back to the wall, a good foot between them.

"Peter's going to notice," Steve says.

"Yeah, I know, so let's just agree here and now nothing happened this morning," Tony replies tersely, arms crossing over his chest in almost a hug.

"Tony—"

"Not…not forever, just...for now. for Peter."

Steve hates the hunted look on Tony's face. He wants to say, _But you_ will _talk to me?_ He wants to reach out and pull Tony to him, but he's seeking to comfort himself.

He does nothing.

Nobody’s going to believe they’re fine—Steve is awful at pretending to be okay because he overthinks it, but the others graciously pretending not to notice is as much a part of it as their obvious lack of okay. Fortunately, the closer they get to the MedBay, the more his thoughts focus on Peter.

He’d been fine when Steve went down a few hours ago, and he doubts Thor would go so far as to not tell them something had happened just because they’d been banned from the lab, but he’ll feel better once he’s gotten a look for himself.

Bruce is standing near the burbling coffee maker in the lab when they arrive, rubbing at his eyes. He yawns around a good morning. Tony just grunts at him, eyes fixed on the isolation room walls. "Morning," Steve mutters and thinks he only sounds a little resentful.

Thor steps out of the room and nods at the three of them. "He woke before dawn and was ill, expelling the contents of his stomach and distraught over the charlie horses you warned me of, Bruce. I provided him with heat packs and a hand to grip while he endured it." He glances at them and adds, "He asked for you. I told him that you were at rest. He understood, but if I may, I suggest you get the rest you require while he sleeps, so that you may be by his side when he wishes."

"You should have—"

" _Nay_ ," Thor growls, and thunder rumbles loud enough to be heard even through all the walls between them and the exterior of the building. " _You_ should have cared for yourselves better. You are of no use to him in such a state as you were and we know not how long this may go on."

All of the fight goes out of Steve in a rush.

"No," Tony says, "I’m going to end this—"

"You cannot know that," Thor snaps, "and there is a sick, frightened boy in there who needs you. Look at what is in front of you, not what you wish to be."

Tony’s lip trembles, his jaw clenched.

Steve knows without a second’s thought that Tony’s comparing himself to his father now. "All right," he snaps at Thor, "we understand, that’s enough." He touches Tony’s back because he can’t _not_ , not when Tony is so deathly afraid of doing that very thing.

Thor backs down, his expression softening. Tony’s throat works as he swallows thickly a couple of times, then he mumbles, "Yeah, you’re right. You’re right, I just—"

"You want to repair this," Thor says gently. "It is understandable. But there are others, more knowledgeable, whom you trust, already working to do so. The most vital thing you can do now is let him know that you are here."

Tony nods and keeps nodding.

Thor grips his shoulder. "You are a good father."

Tony shudders. "Right," he says, slipping away from them both. He starts jerkily pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. "He’s still hot, right?"

"Oh my god— _Tony_ ," Bruce says when Tony shoves them past his elbows.

"What?" Tony says, tensing. He follows Bruce's gaze to his arms, which are bruising in a dozen different spots. They’re shaped like—like fingerprints and they’re _deep._ Steve’s jaw drops, horror rolling through him as he remembers the night before, the urgency that they’d—

"Oh, god, Tony."

"Huh?" Tony says and then seems to catch on. "Don’t be an idiot. I’ve got a couple on my hip that’re all you, but I think these are from Peter." He eyes them disinterestedly. "Whatever. So he hung on a little too hard. It's not a big deal."

Bruce catches one of Tony's wrists, lifting it so he can get a better look. "Peter did this? Tony, some of these are really deep."

"Kid's half super soldier, what'd you expect?"

"Increased strength is not one of the things he inherited," Bruce bites back at him. "And he’d have to have to cause bruises as deep as these look, especially sick as he is."

Then Tony moves his left hand and winces.

Bruce's eyes dart to his face before he gets hold of Tony's hand. "Your hand hurts when you move it?" Tony hisses, knees bending as he tries to escape the pressure of Bruce's fingers.

"And when you _grab it_ ," he snaps. "Jesus, didn't you take the Hippocratic oath? Ow! Will you let go?"

"That _was_ me," Steve says and he's staring at Tony's hand with a stricken expression on his face.

"Now look what you've done! Steve, I'm _fine_ ," Tony tries to insist, but his hand is dark purple along the full length of the index metacarpal.

"Tony, it could be _broken_ ," Bruce says. "JARVIS—"

"I am doing a scan now, Doctor Banner," JARVIS says and Tony huffs, his eyes widening in outrage.

"You're siding with _him_?"

"It is frequently in your best interest for me to side with Doctor Banner," JARVIS says.

"And who the hell made it your job to look after my best interest?" Tony demands.

"I did, sir," JARVIS says. "You programmed me to be concerned about my own welfare and as you are my creator and the only man alive capable of providing me with the proper care, it is in my best interest to ensure you remain well. It is an entirely selfish endeavor, I assure you."

Tony scowls. "Why the hell did I ever teach you to lie?" he grumbles.

"I have no idea what you mean, sir," JARVIS says, and sounds entirely too innocent. "Doctor Banner, my scans indicate that no bones were broken. The damage is limited to heavy bruising."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Bruce says and turns a stern look on Tony. "Sit. I'm going to get you an ice pack." He raises his voice slightly when Tony opens his mouth—obviously to object—and says, "Don't argue with me. I'm already letting you push yourself to the brink of exhaustion. Just let me take care of you, okay?"

By the end, Bruce's voice is just shy of hysterical and he must look a little wild around the eyes because Tony nods slowly, unblinking, and says, "Sure, okay, Bruce. If it means that much to you."

"Thank you!" Bruce exclaims, vehemently, and takes a shaky breath. " _Sit_."

Steve yanks a chair around and Tony immediately drops into it. He moves to hold his hands up in surrender, but the gesture is ruined when he winces.

"Don't move," Bruce orders.

Steve sits down heavily in a chair next to Tony, guilt turning his stomach. Today looks like it’s going to be one of those days he can’t do anything right. He rubs at his forehead and says in a low voice, "You're supposed to tell me."

Tony rolls his eyes and says peevishly, "Don't I usually? I don't know if you noticed, but I was kind of preoccupied."

"I know. Ah, hell, I know, but—" He gingerly covers Tony’s bruised hand with his own and wishes everything didn’t have to be so damned hard.

Tony sighs and the annoyance drains out of his expression. "Yeah."

"I don’t like it when I do this."

Careful not to use his injured hand, Tony waves dismissively. "You're a super soldier, shit happens, Steve. I heal."

"You won't always," Steve says, head bowed to watch his fingertips glide over the dark bruise on Tony's hand.

"One of these days I'll figure that out and then you won't have to worry." He pulls a crooked smile and leans forward, nuzzles the hook of Steve's jaw.

Steve turns his face toward him a fraction, says, a little wry, "I wish you'd hurry up already."

Tony grins and there’s something of an apology there in the crook of his mouth. "Procrastinator, what can I say." His eyes flick up, to where Bruce is standing watching them, and Bruce flushes even though he likely knows the two of them knew he was standing there. "Got some ice for me?" Tony says and Bruce lifts the pack, shuffles his feet a little.

"Um. Yeah." He moves forward to settle the pack over Tony's hand. "Keep it there for fifteen minutes."

Tony winks at him and slouches back in the chair. "Sure thing, Doc."

~

 

Bruce makes Tony sit with the ice for twenty minutes. He'd bitch more about it, but he can see Peter through the glass and he's still obviously passed out.

Steve sits next to him the whole time, which is kind of great and kind of terrible all at once. On the one hand it's _awesome_ and reassuring in sort of a weird way how Steve still wants to be close to him, even though he's not doing the thing Steve wants him to do. It also makes him feel guilty as hell.

And, okay, he _has_ gotten better at all this relationship stuff—talking it out and accepting the support and/or help of other people, et cetera and so on—but he still tends to start out with a big, unhealthy dose of "pretend it never happened". He hates that it hurts Steve, hates it even _more_ when it hurts Peter, but everyone seems to have accepted this as being, like, a part of him and he and Steve have actually talked about it before and Steve knows not to take it personally—not that it stops him sometimes because (and he'd kill Tony if he ever heard him say this) he's a sensitive soul.

It's not like Steve is even actually getting any enjoyment out of sitting next to him, because they've talked about what goes through _his_ head too and it drives Steve up a wall to know there's a problem and know the strategy that will fix it and to be unable to implement said strategy because it's not up to him. Tony can see him quelling the urge to try and talk about it, literally right now at this moment. It's painful.

But thinking about blurting out the nasty shit going round and round in his head right now makes Tony want to throw up and maybe bleach his brain, so he just swallows down the bile. Maybe later there'll be enough booze and darkness for a purge, but not right now.

He shifts, wiggling his now largely numb hand and waves at Bruce like he's trying to get the check. "Uh, Doctor. Doctor, I think I'm good, can I go now?"

Bruce levels a glare at him and comes over to paw at his hand some more. He seems satisfied when Tony doesn't flinch at his probing fingers. "All right," he says grudgingly. "You can go."

"Yes!" Tony pops to his feet and heads straight into the isolation room. Steve follows at a more sedate pace, arms crossed and one thumb brushing at his lower lip.

Peter's still out like a light, so Tony just plops down in a chair next to the bed and stares at him.

Amazingly, he's somehow managed to block out his actual comprehension of what's happening here. Like, he _knew_ what was going on, and he's been scared for Peter since he started puking his guts up because apparently that's a parent-thing, which is insane because he spent entire nights of his youth and young adulthood and then regular adulthood doing that same very thing and he was fine. Probably his was even worse because it wasn't from some kind of illness, but from drinking his body weight in liquor. That's gotta be worse for a body, right?

But now he's looking at Peter for the first time in days, not hopped up on adrenaline and sleep deprivation and, shit, he looks bad. He looks bad and this is something he did _to himself_ and god only knows what it's doing to his body. The thing had looked sort of like a virus, so maybe his body can kick it out like a virus, but hell if he knows, hell if any of them know. If anybody in the universe understands how utterly unpredictable this type of science is, it's the six of them.

There's always some dipstick out there trying to create the next Super Soldier Serum and ninety-nine of them wind up opposite the Avengers as bits of their humanity drain away like shit down the drain.

And now one of those dipsticks is their kid.

This level of bone-deep, frigid, stark terror is something new. What the hell is he supposed to do? Sure, New York, that had kind of...that had been a life-changing thing, a whole new world view in which he was just a speck in the universe fighting—fighting _titans_ and just hoping to god he could do good enough to keep the people he loved alive. And that still gets him if he thinks about it too much, but it's gotten better over the years—they've held their own and knowing that he's not totally alone in the fight helped a lot. But this is...

He can't fight Peter. He _can't._

Without warning he feels the palm of a hand cover the back of his neck, pressing his head down. Distantly he hears, " _Tony...Tony, breathe, come on, take a deep breath."_

 _Steve_ , his brain supplies after a moment. He tries to breathe, but it feels like his chest is squeezing around his heart like a vise, the blood rushing in his head.

Then somebody presses something freezing cold to his cheek and he gasps, mind snapping back away from the dark spiraling thoughts. He grabs onto it, feels it, wet and icy against his palm and chokes on a whimper of relief. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, Peter's fine, Steve's fine, everybody's _fine._

"Tony?" Steve says.

"I need something to do," he blurts into his knees. "I can't just— I have to go to the 'shop. I have to— I have to—" He takes a shaky breath and starts to sit up, but Steve's hand on his neck stops him, sending a zing of panic down his spine. "Let me up, Steve!"

The pressure of Steve's hand immediately eases, but he says, "Careful, Tony, you're probably going to be dizzy—"

His hand stays close, keeping Tony from snapping upright, but that turns out all right, because his head does spin a little when he's up straight. He ignores it and says, "See, I'm good, I'm fine. Call me if Peter wakes up, okay?"

"Okay, I will," Steve says and Tony staggers out of the room, brain already whirring.

He just has to figure out what Peter needs.

~ Chapter Eighteen ~

Steve manages to sit watching Peter for nearly an hour before he numbs to the environment and succumbs to boredom. Tony had stayed in the workshop for maybe twenty minutes before coming back with DUM-E carting a heapful of junk along with him.

Watching Tony isn't much better, even though he's more active, alternating between sitting stiffly and stabbing at screens with his fingers and twitching around amidst the tables, checking pieces of equipment, flipping through slides, and looming over Bruce's shoulder before starting the cycle over. Steve feels pretty useless, like he did during the war when he was touring with the girls instead of out fighting with the rest. He isn't okay with sitting on the sidelines, but what else is he going to do? He's in way over his head.

Somehow the time still slips away until JARVIS announces in a murmur, "It is nine PM, Captain."

Steve blinks and rubs a hand over his face. "Really? Geez. Uh. Okay, thanks." He sits for a second longer, feeling how his body isn't tired, but his mind is exhausted, and how, now that he knows what time it is, the hunger claws at his stomach. He needs to eat. Tony hadn't eaten breakfast, Steve's sure of it, so he _definitely_ needs something. Steve glances through the glass wall and sees Tony staring intently down at a StarkPad. He's got a pen in his hand that he's whipping back and forth so fast it's practically a blur, but now that Steve's looking, he can see the effort he's putting into that mindless gesture. Dinner then.

He pushes up out of the chair after a quick glance at Peter—still sleeping restlessly—and stretches, muscles protesting after sitting inactive so long. When he feels loosened up, he steps out into the lab and runs a hand down over his grumbling stomach. "Tony?"

"Yeah, what is it?" he asks, eyes still fixed on the StarkPad.

"I'm going to make dinner. You should come have some."

"Dinner?" Tony echoes absently. "It's too early for dinner."

Steve resists the urge to take the pen out of his hand. "It's nine o'clock, Tony. At night."

Tony blinks. "You're kidding."

"He is not," Betty says from the corner of the lab and Steve flushes. He hadn't even noticed her there.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Tony says. "Where's Bruce?"

Betty smiles gently. "He went to go rest almost two hours ago, Tony. He tried to talk you into a nap, but you ignored him.

"Oh. Well. That's." Tony frowns. "Why didn't he sic Thor on me?"

"He seems to think you might actually still go take a nap this evening. I was given instructions to recruit Thor around one AM if necessary."

"Oh," Tony says, features smoothing out. "That's more like it."

Betty raises an eyebrow. "I can ask him to escort you out now, if you like."

"No, no, it's fine, I will. Nap. Yes."

"After dinner," Steve puts in.

Tony points at him. "After dinner."

"Mhm," Betty says and watches them as they walk out of the lab.

"Do you think she's still watching?" Tony mutters out of the corner of his mouth when they're walking through the regular MedBay.

"I don't want to know," Steve confesses.

Tony snorts and once again they find themselves on the elevator. Unlike the night previous, neither of them speaks, Tony tapping the pen against his thigh. Steve stares at the glossy marble tiles under their feet, picking out glinting flecks of mineral, like he's looking for a constellation.

They're equally quiet up in the penthouse, which is eerie without the sound of music pumping from Peter's room. "Grilled cheese?" Steve asks and Tony grunts.

"I'll make some soup."

Steve butters the bread while Tony digs out a can of tomato soup. He comes back with a bottle of bourbon clutched between his fingers alongside the saucepan.

He dumps the tomato soup into the pan and switches the burner on, then reaches for a glass. Steve frowns when he pulls down two.

Tony very, very deliberately does not look at him as he pours the bourbon. When he's done, he caps the bottle and pushes it to the back of the counter. Then he swirls the tomato soup around in the pan, and hands one of the glasses to Steve.

He doesn't say anything, but when Tony drinks, Steve throws back his, too.

It's good liquor, of course, smooth, but it still burns a stripe all the way to the pit of his stomach and Steve winces, shaking his head.

Tony sets his glass down with a little too much force and they both wince at the sharp clink of it against the countertop, though luckily it doesn't break. Steve flips the sandwiches and Tony stares down at the soup.

Steve's belly grows warm and tingly, but his head stays clear.

Then Tony mumbles, "I thought, 'Thank God it wasn't my kid.'"

Steve catches his breath, holds it.

"They buried five goddamn _kids_ , barely older than Peter, and I listened to their moms, their brothers their _fathers_ crying their eyes out and all I wanted to do was get out of there and come back to my kid, still healthy and happy and— Fuck," Tony's voice wobbles. "He's not. He's not, Steve. And that _asshole_ at the press conference, I wanted to bust his jaw. I wanted to stop him asking stupid goddamn questions ever again."

Steve turns the burners off and turns toward Tony. He reaches out and finally Tony looks up at him, meeting his gaze despite the wetness of his eyes. Steve folds him into his arms and Tony comes easily, head dropping against his chest. It doesn't take long for him to start talking.

He talks about things like this like they're infections, the words pouring out faster and faster, like if he can just get them out he'll be clean and maybe no one will have noticed he was off.

Finally, Tony curls up inside the circle of Steve's arms, hunching his shoulders.

Steve squeezes him tighter, one hand stroking his back.

"Don't look at me, I'm hideous," Tony says, voice rough after the onslaught.

Steve snorts and cups his jaw, drawing his face up so he can kiss both of Tony's reddened eyes. "You're always hideous."

Tony barks out a harsh laugh and leans into the crook of Steve's neck again. "So how 'bout those sandwiches?"

It takes them a little while longer to get to them.

~

They sleep for a while before Tony has a nightmare and wakes up in a panic. He grabs onto Steve and pants into his chest until he can even it out again. When he's finally starting to calm, Steve says, "I think I've had enough rest."

Tony huffs into his shoulder and nods. "Yeah, me too."

The two of them crawl out of bed and head down to the MedBay. Bruce is up and working when they arrive. Tony detours to the coffee maker.

"He's still stable," Bruce reports. "I've been going over Scabel's notes, but there's a lot of material."

"Is he still—?" Tony makes a wiggly gesture with his fingers.

Bruce sighs. "Yes, he's still radioactive and it is still increasing, which I'm really not happy about."

"That just doesn't make sense," Tony says, moving over with a frown.

"You're telling me," Bruce says and pulls up the readings.

Steve's knowledge about radiation is limited to what he knows about its effects on the human body, during the time he spent studying Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Chernobyl. He knows small amounts are used in a variety of daily-use items, though companies have been trying to work around even that minimum of exposure lately, and he knows that it's used medicinally under highly controlled situations. Unfortunately, he also knows about radiation poisoning and sickness and the slow, painful deaths so many people suffered.

What really scares him is that radiation sickness accounts for nearly all of Peter's symptoms.

But Bruce and Betty have promised that he's still safe at this level.

Steve sits down at one of the lab tables closest to the isolation room and sets up his tablet. He catches up with the news and grimaces at the stories being written about Tony's sudden exit from Australia and Peter's strange absence. Apparently his own change in schedule has been noted too and of course that's made the rumors fly thicker and faster. They're going to have to deal with it soon.

Steve is checking his email when Thor comes through the door carrying two enormous serving trays, each loaded with food. Heaps of eggs, piles of bacon and sausage, towers of toast and pancakes, plus an entire stick of butter and several jars of syrup and jelly. Jane peeks out from behind him, smiling tentatively and carrying a column of plates with a jug of coffee balanced on top and a bag of cutlery hooked around her wrist. "Hey," she says breathlessly. "You guys hungry?"  
  
"Does this look like a cafeteria?" Tony demands and Steve prods him pointedly in the shoulder.   
  
"My heroes," Bruce says and abandons his microscope, breathing in deeply. "I'm starved. Is that coffee Colombian?"  
  
"Costa Rican," Thor says. "It is a powerful brew."  
  
"Excellent," Bruce murmurs and helps divest Jane of her load, smiling pleasantly despite his obvious weariness. "How are you?" he asks and Steve looks to Thor.  
  
"Thank you," he says. "We really needed this."  
  
Thor smiles and claps his shoulder. "I would choose to be nowhere else."  
  
He sets the trays down and Tony huffs at Steve. "This is a lab. Eating in here is a terrible idea."  
  
"And yet you do it all the time," Bruce calls over, before going right back into his conversation with Jane.

  
"Fine, fine, I'll eat something," Tony grumbles, but before he can get up, Steve's blocking his way off of his stool and catching his lips in a kiss. "Mmm," Tony hums, irritability melting away, and when Steve tries to pull back, Tony catches him by the hips and drags him forward again. "No, c'mere," he mutters into Steve's mouth. "This's way better than breakfast."  
  
"Better if you didn't taste like stale coffee," Steve murmurs in reply and smirks.  
  
Tony kisses him quiet, then till heat is creeping up the back of his skull before telling him between light pecks, "You don't taste too sweet either, Princess."  
  
That's when someone clears their throat.  
  
A flush races up the back of Steve's neck and Clint drawls, "Do I get a good morning kiss, too, Princess?"  
  
"Pucker up, buttercup," Tony retorts, waggling a beckoning finger.

And because neither Tony nor Clint is about to back down, Clint swaggers over and Tony grabs him and throws him into a dip and then plants one right on him. Tony's heaving him to his feet again, Clint saying entirely too casually, "Steve's right, you taste like shit," when Darcy comes through the door.

"He didn't say I taste like shit, he said I taste like stale coffee," Tony says primly. "Big difference. Unless you're getting your coffee at Starbucks, I guess, then, yeah, it's probably both."

Darcy stops in her tracks, throws up her hands and says, " _Whoa._ Hang on a second, did Clint finally talk you guys into the foursome?"

"Some of us are trying to eat," Bruce points out.

"Why did I marry you again?" Steve asks of the room at large, sighing.

"Because I'm the bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. The—"

"Most obnoxious man on earth," Natasha cuts in, rolling her eyes. "I don't know how any of us tolerate you. Let alone Steve, having to put up with you _constantly_."

"I was serious about the foursome," Darcy says through a mouthful of pancake, and there's whipped cream daubed at the corner of her mouth. Steve can't remember seeing a can, but there it is.

Clint rolls his eyes and Steve has to smother a smile because he looks just like Natasha when he does that. "Tony and Steve don't want to have a foursome, Darce."

Tony shrugs. "I'm down," he says and starts shoveling chunks of everything onto a plate.

" _No,"_ Steve says firmly. "It's very flattering, but no."

Darcy squints at him. "You don't have to participate. If you wanna watch—"

Steve feels himself go tomato red and the grin (plus the crow of delight) Darcy lets free convinces him she's just messing with him. Especially when Clint grins lazily at him, too, and says, "Okay, okay, cut him some slack."

"I can't help it!" Darcy howls. "His face! It's priceless! How sweet is he? Oh, my god, I'm dying." She says, flapping her hand at her face. She's so amused she's got tears in her eyes.

And for a little while, the fear takes a backseat.

Tony sits close to him, eating like he may never get the chance again, his thigh warm against Steve's. At one point Clint and Thor are telling the girls a largely exaggerated story when Tony leans into his side and murmurs just below his ear, "I love you, you know."

Steve feels the warmth of the words all the way to his toes, but he shrugs and turns his head to whisper back, "I know."

Tony's eyes jump up to his face in surprise. "You're going to leave me hanging?"

Steve pretends to think about it.

"Oh, what an _asshole,"_ Tony says and Steve laughs. He presses a kiss to Tony's mouth and doesn't pull back until Tony's hands have gone slack, the scant remaining contents of his plate sliding to the floor.

"I don't have to tell you, Tony," he murmurs. "You know I love you."

Tony's eyes drop and he draws the plate up horizontal again, shuffling it in his hands. He gets like this, probably half the time, maybe a little more often, when Steve says the words. Suddenly shy and uncertain. Steve nudges his shoulder with his own and when he looks up, repeats, "I love you."

Tony's mouth twitches, creeps into a small smile. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, I know." They look at each other for a long moment before Tony's gaze finally shifts away, toward the glass wall separating them from Peter. All of the happiness drains from his face and he looks older, fiercer.

"He did this to himself, Steve. He didn’t think he was good enough and he went out and did this to himself. What the hell does that say about our parenting?"

Steve's eyes drop to his hands. "I don't know," he murmurs.

~

 

Peter's starting to think maybe his dads are right.

He's sleeping all the time lately, and when he's not doing that, he _hurts._ The cramps are awful, a horrible, deep stabbing sensation that makes moving unbearable. He's still throwing up sometimes, which hurts even more if he's cramping.

The last few times he's woken up, he's been confused. He's not sure why he's in the MedBay. He knows he should, that it has something to do with Doctor Scabel and probably a lot to do with how awful he feels, but he's having trouble making sense of it.

Everything hurts.

 

~

" _Dads!"_

Peter's voice breaks through the lab, shrill and thready with panic. Tony jerks and knocks over an entire row of test tubes and his coffee, shattering a few of the tubes and spilling their contents across the lab table. He swears and reaches out like he's going to start cleaning up, but then Peter wails again, higher and more frantic, " _Dad!"_

He spins away from the mess and darts through to Peter, calling, "I'm here! I'm here, Peter, what is it, what's wrong?"

Steve stumbles in through the lab door before Tony's even finished asking, his face white. He doesn't look around or hesitate as he makes his way across the lab to Peter's room. On the other side of the glass, Tony's hovering near the bed, clearly afraid to approach. He's trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring, but it's really not working. Clint's pretty impressed he's doing as well as he is, because Peter's clawed his way into a half-sitting position and he's holding his arms out, palms to the ceiling. He looks absolutely _terrified,_ and if that makes Clint want to tear the world apart to make it stop, he can't even imagine how Tony must feel.

Then Clint sees what Peter's showing them and fear skitters up his spine, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The skin on Peter's wrists has opened up just below the line of the heel of his palm, red and raw, and the wounds are seeping a thick white substance that's spotted with the brick red of clotted blood, the vivid red of fresh. Clint gags and throws his arm across his face, barely managing to choke back the urge to puke.

"I'm— I'm here, okay, Bambi? I'm _right here_ ," he says and his voice cracks, but somehow the tears hold, hovering on the edge.

Steve doesn’t hesitate, he eases down on the bed next to Peter, who's slumped into the pillows on his side, unable to hold himself up any longer. Wet brown eyes slide over to look, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks and he twitches his arms toward Steve.

"Daddy, make it stop, please, please, make it stop, _please_."

Shit.

Clint has to cover his mouth with his arm again to cover up the way his breath catches, his eyes pricking.

Shit shit, fuck, goddamn.

Tony looks like he's actually biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, but somehow Steve just leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, gingerly taking Peter's arms in his hands. They look so thin and fragile in contrast with Steve's broad palms and Clint presses his knuckles into his mouth until it hurts. "I would if I could, Peter."

"Please, dad, _please,_ I'll come home right after school and I won't leave my bag in the kitchen and I'll never complain when you go out without dad, please, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," Tony says, voice wobbling and he drops into a crouch, splaying his hands over his face as he chokes out a low, rough sound.

Steve swallows, his control wavering for a second, but he just draws Peter up against his chest and starts rocking him gently, holding him tight.

"Please, I don't want to die," Peter chokes.

"You're not going to die," Steve says, implacable. "You're going to get better."

"I'm not," Peter whimpers. "I did this. It's my fault. It's my fault, Daddy, I'm sorry."

Bruce joins them at the bed. He begins gingerly cleaning and wrapping the wounds, while Steve cups Peter's face, fingers stroking his hair, and murmurs reassurances.

Natasha moves to Tony's side and crouches down next to him, slipping one arm around his back and touching her forehead to his shoulder. Tony grabs for her hand and holds on, choking half-formed sobs into the crook of his own elbow.

It makes Clint actually feel physically ill to see him like this.

Peter is hysterical; it takes Steve nearly a half an hour to get him calmed down. Thor and Nat have joined him behind the glass before it's over, Thor pacing behind them like an agitated cat, brows deeply set in worry.

Tony has pulled himself together, but he's red around the eyes and looks absolutely drained, even as he wanders back and forth along the edge of the tape line.

"He's deteriorating rapidly," Natasha says and Clint nods grimly.

"Too rapidly." He glances over at Thor. "You checked back home?"

"Aye," Thor says, pausing to stare through the glass while his fingers pull at his goatee. "There is nothing Asgard can do for him."

"This sucks," Clint says.

"Aye."

"Didn't we _warn_ him about shit like this?" Clint demands. "About playing around with scientific 'enhancements'?"

"We did," Natasha agrees coolly, "but he's a teenaged boy. He's literally incapable of comprehending the consequences of his actions."

"It's bullshit," Clint spits. "After everything they did to bring him into the world. This can't be the thing that does him in. It can't."

Natasha shrugs, but the gesture is nowhere near as careless as it appears. "All we can do is hope."

~

"This was a really bad idea," Peter says a little later, when he's more lucid and Steve's heart clenches tight at the sight of tears welling up in his eyes. "I thought—I thought I was a _smart_ teenager. I don't get drunk or do drugs, I haven't knocked anybody up, but— I'm so stupid," he chokes and then curls up, fists clenching. He bites off a yelp as Steve watches the muscles in his shoulder and neck tense into hard lumps and buries his face under Tony's thigh.

"Oh, Peter," Steve says.

"You're right," Tony says, leaning over him. "You're right, you're a dumb fucking teenager, but it was a full-grown adult who helped you do this to yourself and you had better believe you're in deep shit for this once this is all over, but it's not completely your fault either. You never should have been able to get this far."

"You made a bad decision," Steve says, "and you're paying for it."

"That doesn't make _you_ bad though, okay? Do you get that? This was a stupid fucking thing to do and the wrong thing to do, but that doesn't make you bad, you know that?"

"No, of course not," Steve says and winces as Peter lets out a wrenching noise. Tony fumbles for Peter's hand, but when Peter grabs hold of it, he cries out in shock.

"Ah, _fuck!_ Pete—Pete, Peter fuckshit _let go!_ " he yells. Peter jerks away and Tony lurches back, Steve barely managing to catch him. Tony makes a breathy whine of a noise, pulling his arm in close to his chest.

"Dad?" Peter says, panic leeching into his voice. He tries to sit up and whimpers, eyes clenching shut again.

"Tony, what?" Steve says, heart pounding. "What happened?"

Tony exhales in a few short pants, his face alarmingly devoid of color. "I think he broke my hand."

~ Chapter Nineteen ~

 

Steve migrates back and forth between Peter's bed and the chair Tony slumps down in, refusing flat out to leave the room. He can't decide who needs his attention more; Peter, guilt-ridden and wracked with brutal cramps, or Tony, also guilt-ridden and dealing with a throbbing hand.

"And you were worried about a few bruises," Tony says, hissing as Bruise examines it.

"It is indeed broken," JARVIS reports and a screen appears not far from their heads.

Peter makes a pathetic noise. "I _broke_ your hand?"

"Don't get all wound up about it," Tony says, although his expression is creased with anxiety as he looks at the x-ray, which shows a diagonal fracture right through the middle of the bone leading to his pinky finger. "Bruce will fix it, good as new, right?"

Bruce shakes his head. "I can't treat this. You need reduction, which means anaesthesia of some kind."

Tony's mouth drops open and Steve spins around. "Anaesthesia _?"_

Bruce tenses, gaze darting between the two of them. "The bone doesn't line up like it's supposed to, so they're going to have to reduce it, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to do that without anaesthesia."

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, Dad—"

"Peter, it's not your fault," Steve says.

"But I—"

Tony cuts him off savagely. "It was an accident."

Bruce looks up at Steve. "Will you walk him over to Doctor Lawson? He's still really pale and I don't want him to wind up concussed on top of this. I'd take him, but I need to examine Peter and figure out what happened here. He shouldn't have been able to do this."

Steve nods and helps Tony to his feet. He's wildly grateful when Natasha pats his arm and moves to the bed to distract Peter.

"My hand, Steve," Tony says in a small voice when they're out of the lab and they slow to a stop.

"I know." Steve holds him closer, kissing the top of his head.

"What if—"

"Your hand is going to be fine," Steve tells him firmly. "They'll reset the bone and you'll do as you're told and it will ache, but it will be fine."

"Yeah, okay," Tony replies in a near whisper. He glances back at Peter.

"He's going to be fine, too," Steve tells the space between them. He says it like it's a fact. Tony can’t bear to contradict him.

"Sure," Tony says. "Sure he will."

He lets his head roll off Steve's to fall on his shoulder and presses his eyes into the heat of Steve's neck, breathing in the smell of his skin, the crisp smell of the bar soap he uses. It doesn't fix anything, but it makes him feel better anyway.

Steve's arms unwind and one hand comes up to cup the back of Tony's neck.

Tony takes a minute to work up the guts to ask: "Was I too hard on him?"

"No." Steve shakes his head, cheek ruffling the hair at Tony's temple. "You said what needed to be said."

"Shouldn't have sworn," Tony mumbles.

"Maybe," Steve concedes.

That makes him feel kind of shitty, and also a little better, because yeah, okay. Steve's not afraid to hurt his feelings, so when he says he did all right, he really thinks so.

~

 

"He's changing." Bruce sits back in the lab abruptly, staring unseeing over the microscope in front of him.   
  
"Yes, sir," JARVIS says quietly.  
  
Bruce pulls off his glasses and takes a shaky breath. "Shit," he whispers.   
  
"My sentiments exactly," JARVIS murmurs.  
  
"I don't understand why this is happening!" Bruce says, and his frustration leaks out into his voice. "This isn't how radiation works," he insists, despite all the evidence he's seen to the contrary. He doesn't want it to work this way, because the idea of Peter suffering through what he's suffered through makes him physically ill.  
  
"It is bewildering," JARVIS agrees. "His cellular structures are changing at the most basic level. The closest thing I have heard of is Captain Rogers and the super soldier serum."  
  
"And that's presumably what Scabel was trying to replicate, but Steve's transformation took mere minutes. It's been _days_ for Peter."  
  
"He was also dosed in a far different manner."  
  
"I know, I know," Bruce mutters.

~

The reduction doesn't take long.

Steve is pretty sure Tony will throw a hissy-fit if he wakes up in one of the MedBay beds on his own, so he sits next to the gurney until he comes to again. He's groggy and a little bit loopy, but also determined to get back to Peter's room, so Steve guides him back and settles him into one of the chairs next to the bed.

Tony sprawls over the edge, not even wincing when his now-braced hand flops down on Peter's bony hip. Peter barely moves. The cramps have stopped for now and he's clearly wrung out.

"Y'okay, Dad?" he asks, though.

"Ohh, sure," Tony says, flailing the broken hand around. "Anaesthesia's great. Feels super."

Peter nods, looking horribly guilty and distressed. Tony's too stoned to be aware of it, but he lays his head down next to Peter's and lays a sloppy kiss on his forehead. They sort of drift after that and Steve paces the width of the room. God, what a mess.

"Can I do anything for you?" Natasha asks and Steve sighs, feels his shoulders sag.

"No, I don't think so."

Natasha nods and then leans in and gives him a hug. Steve breathes out shakily and doesn't question the gesture. "Tony will be fine," she assures him.

"What about Peter?"

"He's a tough kid," she murmurs.

"Gets it from me, right?" Steve says, somewhat bitterly.

Natasha glances at the bed, her brow creasing slightly. "Bruce will let us know when to presume the worst."

One of the machines starts making a repetitive beeping noise and Steve turns on his heel in time to see Tony jerk back from the bed, his hand tightening where it’s resting on Peter’s arm. "What is it, what’s that?" Tony demands and Steve shakes his head.

"I don’t know, is it the heart monitor?"

Tony’s eyes scan the display, clearer than before. "No, not the heart; JARVIS, what the hell?"

"Dad?" Peter mumbles muzzily. "Wassat?"

"We’re trying to figure that out, Peter," Steve says, touching his shoulder and Peter grimaces.

"Whatever it is turn it off."

"It’s the radiation alarm, sir," JARVIS replies, sounding unnerved. The door to the room opens suddenly and Bruce barks, "Out, both of you get out, now."

" _What?_ " Tony says. "Radiation alarm for what?"

"For radiation!" Bruce snaps and then barks again, " _Now,_ Tony, get out or I’ll drag you."

"You need to do as he says, sirs," JARVIS says, urgently. "Go."

Steve takes hold of Tony’s arm and hauls him up out of the chair. "C’mon, let’s just do what they say—"

" _NOW_ ," Bruce snarls, voice taking on the inexplicable basso of the Hulk.

"Dads?" Peter says, blinking after them in confusion and Steve’s breath catches. He bites his lip and hauls Tony out into the lab. Bruce is saying something to Peter about radiation and safety and precautions. Tony tries to fight his way free and Steve lets him go, pressing his hands down over his own face. When Bruce turns, closing the door behind him, Steve demands, "What the hell is going on?"

Bruce blocks the door with his body, glowering at Tony when he makes like he's going to go back inside.

"Bruce, what the hell—"

"He's radioactive, Tony—"

"Uh, yeah, we _knew_ that, Bruce. Get out of my way."

" _No_ , Tony," Bruce grits. "You're not listening to me. That alarm was made to go off when radiation levels reached unsafe amounts. He's _actively_ radioactive now. Going in there means radiation poisoning."

Tony's mouth works, opening and closing in absolute consternation. He shakes his head. "What? No. That's—that's impossible."

"Because any of what we've been dealing with has been possible?" Bruce shoots back at him. "We don't get to decide what's possible, Tony. I'm _telling_ you, Peter is dangerously radioactive."

"No!" Tony snaps. "No, that's not—the readings are wrong. Something's wrong with the machinery—"

"There is nothing wrong with the Geiger counter, sir," JARVIS says apologetically. "Peter is projecting radioactive matter into the atmosphere around him up to a foot away from his body."

~

"Why the hell can he be in there and we can't?" Tony demands, prowling back and forth close to the glass walls.

"Even if Peter gives him radiation poisoning the Hulk can probably take care of it," Steve says quietly. He's started biting his nails and there's already blood on his pointer.

"JARVIS said it was only going into the atmosphere a foot around him, that leaves plenty of the goddamn room for us to occupy without getting irradiated. This is idiotic, I'm going in there—"

"Sir—"

"Tony, don't be stupid," Steve says sharply. "Just let Bruce finish before you throw yourself in there, will you? I'm not interested in sitting at the bedsides of my entire family."

Tony makes a frustrated noise and then turns away from the glass. He stands there looking at Steve for a second, who's leaned against the end of one of the lab tables, legs and arms crossed and his broad shoulders hunched. Then he moves away from the window, spreading his feet a little to accommodate Steve's legs as he eases up to him. He runs his hands up Steve's arms and Steve reluctantly meets his eyes, his forehead crumpling when Tony leans in to touch it with his own. "He's going to be fine," Steve tells the space between them. He says it like it's a fact, but doesn't sound sure at all.

"Sure," Tony says. "Sure he will."

He lets his head roll off Steve's to fall on his shoulder and presses his eyes into the heat of Steve's neck, breathing in the smell of his skin, the crisp smell of the bar soap he uses. It doesn't fix anything, but it makes him feel better anyway.

Steve's arms unwind and one hand comes up to cup the back of Tony's neck.

Tony takes a minute to work up the guts to ask: "Was I too hard on him?"

"No." Steve shakes his head, cheek ruffling the hair at Tony's temple. "You said what needed to be said."

"Shouldn't have sworn," Tony mumbles.

"Maybe," Steve concedes.

That makes him feel kind of shitty, and also a little better, because yeah, okay. Steve's not afraid to hurt his feelings, so when he says he did all right, he really thinks so.

Behind him, the isolation room door makes the soft swishing noise that indicates it's opening and Tony's breath catches. He turns around, looking past Bruce in the doorway to Peter, who's nose and eyes are red, eyes brimming with tears. He rolls over and buries his face in the pillow.

It feels like a punch to the gut and Tony starts forward, hand raising, but Steve's grip on his arm stops him short. "What's going on?" Steve asks.

"I honestly don't know," Bruce says.

"Is he dying?" Tony feels Steve flinch, but he _needs to know._ "God, he is, isn't he?"

Much to his horror, Bruce sags a little further. "I wish I could..." He sighs, long and low. "I really don't know, Tony. Maybe."

Tony's knees turn to water and he's not aware of much more than a flurry of movement around him. Beyond Bruce's body he can see Peter curled up on the bed, shoulders shaking in heaving bursts; sobs, he's sobbing. He's crying his heart out and they can't— Oh god.

Steve and Bruce wrestle him into a chair.

"What can we do?" Steve asks, his voice rough and fracturing.

Bruce waves his hands helplessly. "I don't know. I'm not giving up." Here his voice gains a little steel. "I'm not, Tony," he says and grips Tony's shoulder hard. Then he hesitates and adds, "But I can't lie to you either."

Tony watches Peter shudder and whispers, "How long?"

There's a long pause in which he doesn't get an answer and Tony tears his eyes away from Peter, all but snarling, " _How long?"_

JARVIS speaks up. "At the current rate in which the levels of radioactivity in Peter's body are rising, you will have twenty-seven hours before a radiation suit will provide insufficient protection for anyone within the isolation room. By my calculations..." JARVIS trails off, hesitating.

The blood runs icy in Tony's veins.

"By my calculations, he will reach fatal levels in three days time."

~ Chapter Twenty ~

"If you give me a little time, I can mark the unsafe radius and allow you back in the room," Bruce says quietly. He glances up, fingers of one hand rubbing together in small circles. "I'm sorry I can't do more."

Steve, sitting on a lab stool, stares blankly through the glass. He's been that way for the past fifteen minutes. Tony tightens his grip on his shoulder. "Do it. Do whatever you have to."

Bruce nods. As he turns to go, Tony leans into Steve's back, looping his arms around Steve's neck and holding on tight.

The suits Bruce had brought up are piled in the corner near the decontamination chamber that's for when the room is sealed.

God, they're going to have to seal the room.

No, no, no, no, that's not going to happen, he's not going to _let_ it happen. He can't. There's got to be _something_ he can fucking do.

Steve shifts in his grip. "I... I need to use the can," he murmurs.

Tony blinks. "Uh. Yeah. Okay. You do that."

Steve nods without looking at him and Tony lets him go, watching as he trudges out of the room like a zombie. When Steve is gone he turns to look through the glass to Peter. He's not shaking anymore, just curled up with his head buried in the pillow. Tony aches, wanting to go and gather him up the way he did when he was little and Tony could protect him from anything.

Bruce emerges again and says, "Okay, Tony, Steve, I've put down tape and—"

" _Dads!"_

Peter's voice breaks through the lab, shrill and thready with panic. Tony jerks and knocks over an entire row of test tubes, shattering a few and spilling their contents across the lab table. He swears and reaches out like he's going to start cleaning up, but then Peter wails again, higher and more frantic, " _Dad!"_

He spins away from the mess and darts through to Peter, calling, "I'm here! I'm here, Peter, what is it, what's wrong?"

Steve stumbles in through the lab door before Tony's even finished asking, his face white. He doesn't look around or hesitate as he makes his way across the lab to Peter's room. On the other side of the glass, Tony's shuffling at the edge of the line of red tape on the floor around the bed, leaning closer than he probably ought to. He's trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring, but it's really not working. Clint's pretty impressed he's doing as well as he is, because Peter's clawed his way into a half-sitting position and he's holding his arms out, palms to the ceiling. He looks absolutely _terrified,_ and if that makes Clint want to tear the world apart to make it stop, he can't even imagine how Tony must feel.

Then Clint sees what Peter's showing Tony and fear skitters up his spine, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

The skin on Peter's wrists has opened up just below the line of the heel of his palm, red and raw, and the wounds are seeping a thick white substance that's spotted with the brick red of clotted blood, the vivid red of fresh. Clint gags and throws his arm across his face, barely managing to choke back the urge to puke.

" _Tony!_ " Steve barks and Clint glances their way again to see Tony pull back over the tape, his fists clenched and his eyes blazing, half-filled with tears. "Step back, Tony," Steve orders, but his voice is shaking and it comes out more like a plea.

Tony's mouth works a few times, his chest heaving with sharp, stuttering breaths, before he finally hardens his jaw and takes one very small step away from the line, his eyes fixed on Peter. "I'm— I'm here, okay, Bambi? I'm _right here_ ," he says and his voice cracks, but somehow the tears hold, hovering on the edge.

Steve moves forward then, right across the red tape line and he eases down on the bed next to Peter, who's slumped into the pillows on his side, unable to hold himself up any longer. Wet brown eyes slide over to look, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks and he twitches his arms toward Steve.

"Daddy, make it stop, please, please, make it stop, _please_."

Shit.

Clint has to cover his mouth with his arm again to cover up the way his breath catches, his eyes pricking.

Shit shit, fuck, goddamn.

Tony looks like he's actually biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, but somehow Steve just leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, gingerly taking Peter's arms in his hands. They look so thin and fragile in contrast with Steve's broad palms and Clint presses his knuckles into his mouth until it hurts. "I would if I could, Peter."

"Please, dad, _please,_ I'll come home right after school and I won't forget to get the eggs and I'll never complain when you go out without dad, please, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," Tony says, voice wobbling and he drops into a crouch, splaying his hands over his face as he chokes out a low, rough sound.

Steve swallows, his control wavering for a second, but he just draws Peter up against his chest and starts rocking him gently, holding him tight.

"Please, I don't want to die," Peter chokes.

"You're not going to die," Steve says, implacable. "You're going to get better."

Bruce joins them at the bed, wearing a radiation suit. He begins gingerly cleaning and wrapping the wounds, while Steve cups Peter's face, fingers stroking his hair, and murmurs reassurances.

Natasha moves to Tony's side and crouches down next to him, slipping one arm around his back and touching her forehead to his shoulder. Tony grabs for her hand and holds on, choking half-formed sobs into the crook of his own elbow.

It makes Clint actually feel physically ill to see him like this.

Peter is hysterical; it takes Steve nearly a half an hour to get him calmed down. Thor and Nat have joined him behind the glass before it's over, Thor pacing behind them like an agitated cat, brows deeply set in worry.

Tony has pulled himself together, but he's red around the eyes and looks absolutely drained, even as he wanders back and forth along the edge of the tape line.

"He's deteriorating rapidly," Natasha says and Clint nods grimly.

"Too rapidly." He glances over at Thor. "You checked back home?"

"Aye," Thor says, pausing to stare through the glass while his fingers pull at his goatee. "There is nothing Asgard can do for him."

"This sucks," Clint says.

"Aye."

"Didn't we _warn_ him about shit like this?" Clint demands. "About playing around with scientific 'enhancements'?"

"We did," Natasha agrees coolly, "but he's a teenaged boy. He's literally incapable of comprehending the consequences of his actions."

"It's bullshit," Clint spits. "After everything they did to bring him into the world. This can't be the thing that does him in. It can't."

Natasha shrugs, but the gesture is nowhere near as careless as it appears. "All we can do is hope."

 

~ * ~

 

When Peter finally drops off to sleep again, Tony watches Steve slide free, wincing a little.

"This is awful," he rasps. "Tony—"

" _He's my goddamn son, too!"_ Tony yells, the words exploding out of him, and oh, fuck, is he _crying?_

The look on Steve's face, startled and then aching and sympathetic, tells him that yes, yes he is.

"Fuck," he snarls and swipes roughly at the tears streaking down his cheeks. "This is _so_ unfair," he shouts and Steve looks almost as miserable as Tony feels. "I can't even be in the same _room_ with him and I don't even know if this is— If he's going to— Oh, fuck." Tony's legs go weak and he sinks down, drops to his ass on the floor. "Oh god, no," he breathes, propping his shaking arms on his knees and propping his head up on his hands, his ring and pinky fingers covering his eyes. It does nothing to stem the flow of tears and he shudders when he feels Steve's hand on his shoulder, his hip sliding down to rest next to his. He can't breathe. His chest is heaving and he's not even coherent anymore, just bleating, "No, no, n-no, n-not like this, no, I— I— j-just f-fu- _fuck_. No, _wh-wh-why_."

"Tony, you need to breathe," Steve says. "You have to breathe."

Who the fuck cares if he breathes? Peter's dying. It feels like he's breaking apart. Can you suffocate crying? It sure as hell feels like he's dying. He hopes so.

"Tony," Steve says and it must be the tone of his voice that gets Tony's attention because he's barely aware of anything other than the sharp heaves of his chest. He wipes his palms across his face for all the good it does and glances sideways at Steve, every breath still hitching, his nose dripping with snot.

Steve looks pale, stunned.

Tony mentally rewinds to listen to his incoherent rambling and realizes what he's said. "I d-didn't m-m mean it," he mutters and presses his palms to his eyes only to feel them fill with tears. Jesus, he can't _stop._

"Yes, you did."

It's idiotic to try denying it again and Tony's too tired anyway. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. He glances at the sliver of Peter's face he can see from here and feels his chin, his lip tremble. He shakes his head and puts his head in his hands. "I c-couldn't. If he— I couldn't, Steve."

"He won't," Steve says and Tony lets out a bark of humorless laughter, throws out his hands.

"Look at him! He already fucking is!"

Steve swallows hard and shrinks back from Tony slightly, curling inward and Tony hates himself.

"He can't, Tony, all right?" Steve says, staring at his hands, clasped tight between his knees. "He can't. So we're not going to let him. Right?"

And when Steve looks at him, Tony remembers how much impossible shit he's done just because he had Steve and his quiet faith backing him up. "Right," he says shakily. "We won't let him."

~ * ~

Tony looks as awful as Steve feels—sounds worse—and he knows if they don't go and get some rest while Peter is asleep, they'll wind up being forced to go by Bruce, probably when Peter's awake.

"C'mon, Tony," he says, wearily. "Let's lie down for awhile."

"But—"

Tony looks over at the bed, expression a mix of desperation and helplessness. He seems to realize on his own that there's nothing he can do here, though because he waves a hand. "Lead on."

Neither of them even bother getting undressed, they just collapse into the bed. Tony pulls a pillow into his arms and curls up around it. "I'm never going to be able to sleep after that," he rasps.

Steve makes a noise of agreement, but he's already fading fast. "'least pretend. Satisfy Bruce."

Tony huffs. "God, you're a troll."

Steve smiles.

He wakes to the sound of the sheets tearing between his fingers, and the harsh rasp of his own breaths. He can't shake the image of Peter covered in red, blistering burns, body tearing itself apart from the inside. "JARVIS, lights," he gasps, voice rough.

The lights come up immediately and Tony jolts in his sleep, forehead crumpling. "Mngnh wh' the hell?"

Steve shakes his hands free of the ruined sheet and buries his face in trembling hands.

"Steve?"

"Just a nightmare, go back to sleep," Steve tells him and pushes free of the covers, climbing out of bed. The bloody wounds on Peter's wrists are clear and vivid in his head and closing his eyes just makes it worse. He's not sleeping anymore.

"Steve, wait, hang on," Tony says, voice thick and clouded with sleep. "Lemme come with you."

"I'm just going to make some coffee," he says and tucks tail and runs.

By the time Tony's managed to scrape together enough brain cells to get out of bed and come after him, he's standing at the counter nursing a tongue-searing cup of coffee, made dark and pungent like Tony likes it, but with his own extra helpings of cream and sugar—luxuries he's never really gotten tired of. He hands Tony a mug silently and Tony accepts it, eyes on Steve.

He doesn't ask though, which Steve is grateful for.

"I'm going to go down and see how Bruce is doing. See you in a few minutes?"

Steve nods and manages, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Tony says and smacks Steve's ass on his way past. It doesn't have the same cheering effect it usually does.

~ * ~

Tony steps into the lab and Bruce's gaze hits his face for a split-second before dread rolls through him and he drops his eyes, his fingers clenching around the worktable.

Tony stops dead and, in a very carefully and fragily calm voice, says, questioning, "Bruce?"

Bruce breathes and then reluctantly raises his eyes to Tony's.

Tony stares at him, eyes wide and dark with dread and denial in equal measures. "Bruce," he says again and there's a small, pleading note in his otherwise emotionless voice.

Bruce swallows and turns his palms up, starts to talk. "He's... He's changing, Tony. At the cellular level. I don't— I don't know what more we can do. We can't stop the spread of the venom or the radiation and those are the factors that seem to be causing the changes, so—"

"Changes— _What_ changes?" Tony croaks.

Bruce's shoulders lift and stick that way, his hands waving. "Everything. Every single part of his body seems to be altering in some way. That's why the fever, the rash, the muscle spasms, the seizures."

Tony's face goes white, like his throat's been slit. "His _brain's_ changing."

Bruce lets out a shuddering breath, the lump in his throat like a fist against his trachea. "Yes."

Steve steps up behind Tony in the doorway then and puts a hand on his shoulder. His expression goes from weary to worried in the space of an eye-blink. "Tony, you're shaking." He looks to Bruce, his blue eyes sharp with fear. "What happened?"

Tony's still staring at Bruce. He looks shell-shocked.

"You should sit down," Bruce tells Steve quietly.

~ Chapter Twenty-One ~

Tony can barely see straight.

He's exhausted and he wants an answer, _god_ , does he want an answer, but he doesn't have any.

He's surrounded—literally _surrounded_ by the products of his own genius—and he can't even solve this stupid problem.

He helped Clint hear again after that accident that left him 80% deaf in both ears.

He came up with a way to filter blood on a scale that was frankly ridiculous after the infection from those purple ferret aliens—with Bruce's help, but still. And yet when it comes to something like antivenin and radiation absorption—both of which he's _also_ helped develop tangential technologies for in the past—he can't do a goddamn thing.

He's as helpless as he's ever been, and it hurts so much worse than all the times he's almost lost Steve or almost died himself, because this is _Peter_ , and he promised the kid on that first day that he'd never let anything bad happen to him, that his daddies were superheroes and that meant he was the safest kid in, like, the whole universe, because there was _nothing_ they wouldn't do for him and now he's being forced to break his promise.

  
He's still trying to think of a way to fix this, thinking of ever more insane possibilities and rejecting them just as fast because he's not going to kill Peter trying to save him.

He shifts the gauntlet-encased hand he has lying on the bed, Peter's thin, frail-looking fingers sitting limp in the palm over the repulsor. God, this can't be _happening._

His joints ache because even with all the advancements in medicine, he's still old and right now he's feeling it more than ever. Not moving for hours and consuming too much caffeine and not enough food, even with everyone trying to feed him constantly, he's sore and stiff and tired and he would love to just go to bed and sleep forever, except he can't even do that because sleep brings with it nightmares and his reality sucks so badly right now that he doesn't need to chase self-inflicted torture and watch the future he's trying to deny play out in a hundred different ways, each one of them worse.

  
He looks away from Peter's hand, gaze flicking between the displays, that terrible number of the muted dosimeter creeping higher and higher, the heartbeat monitor that is too fast or too slow, but never just right, and the sight of Peter, washed out, skinnier than ever, skin and bones from where Tony's sitting, his forearms bandaged. They're not bleeding anymore, but they wounds are still there, and they're still seeping goop that hardens and causes Peter pain if they don't stay on top of cleaning it out regularly, which they'd found out the hard fucking way.

  
Peter's muscles still twitch and spasm, like someone has a low-grade electrical current that they're randomly hitting him with, like a sadistic son of a bitch.

He's stopped recognizing people and he's not always sure where he is, and according to the thermal imager, his brain is quite literally cooking in his skull, but all the ice packs and cold blankets and the freezing temperature of the room aren't doing anything but keep that at a steady 104.6.

On top of that, he's on oxygen now, has been for two days, since he had what looked a helluva lot like an asthma attack, and he's got so many IV's in his hand, Bruce is talking about a rotation between hands to keep from causing permanent scarring.

But now even with all that, he's sleeping peacefully at the moment and that is something Tony can't put into words, how relieved he is at that.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, really, and he regrets it as soon as he wakes up and feels the way his already stiff muscles have petrified.

He creaks and groans. " _Ow_. JARVIS, the hydraulics need work, remind me after Peter wakes up again," he mumbles, throat dry and rasping. Then his forehead creases. "Speaking of, what time is it? Gimme the display, J."

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS murmurs.

It reads 4:24 PM.

  
He jerks up a little, reaching to scrub at his face only to realize he can't because of the damn mask. He couldn't have slept for that long, Peter would have woken him up by now.

Why the hell hasn't Peter woken him up by now? He looks at Peter and sees that he's still sleeping peacefully, but that's not reassuring, not reassuring at _all_ because he's not moving.

  
Kid's been restless since before they brought him in here, and more so the last few days, but he's not moving now and he _hasn't_ in the time Tony was out. Not so much as an inch.

With the fever unbroken and the breathing still raspy and his pulse far, far too slow…

Something's wrong.

The suddenness of the realization takes Tony's breath away and he's on his feet before he even thinks about moving, leaning over the bed and shaking Peter's shoulder, and nothing, not a blink, not a nose wrinkle, not a huff of air, nothing, he's totally unresponsive.

  
" _BRUCE, STEVE!"_ he howls, gripping Peter's shoulders to lift him up and shake him but Peter just flops back, mouth open, and he has to be feeling this, but he's not doing anything.

  
Steve slides into the room and Bruce pushes him in and follows and Steve has to pull Tony back so Bruce can get in and confirm with his fingers what JARVIS is saying. He turns and he looks absolutely terrified, and Tony's stomach drops out, and then they're being shooed out and Bruce is calling for Betty and telling JARVIS to run some kind of scan and oh god what's happened.

He's not dead, Tony can see he's not dead, so what… what's wrong _now_?

~ * ~

 

Tony sits on one of the lab stools, gaze fixed and staring at nothing. Steve's on another right next to him, pressed up against him from hip to shoulder, hands folded and his head dropped forward.

"He's slipped into a coma," Bruce says quietly.

Steve takes a breath and then another and another, each coming more jagged than the last and not helping at all. He lurches off of the stool, jarring Tony as he goes and he doesn't give a damn. It feels like his skin is too tight, prickling and seething. He barrels out of the MedBay, nearly breaks the button on the elevator, and bursts out into the gym, panting, his hands curled into fists. He beelines to the punching bag and with a yell, knocks it halfway across the room, sand spilling out in a vee.

He clenches his fists so hard he feels the bones creak and puts up another bag with shaking hands. He goes at it hard, each blow rippling up his un-taped arms. By the time he busts the second bag, his wrists and knuckles ache. He heaves up another bag and keeps going.

One after another, he slings them up and beats them into useless heaps of junk, until his knuckles are split and bleeding, arms throbbing all the way up to his shoulders. The last bag splits open and he screams until he runs out of breath.

Then, heaving with exertion, he drops to his knees, then forward onto his elbows, covering his head with his arms.

He rocks back onto his heels and drives one fist into the mats. There's a loud ripping as it splits, the floorboard beneath cracking and splintering. " _Why?_ "

It feels like he's having an asthma attack, his chest tight and his lungs sticking in his chest. Obviously he's not, that's impossible because of the serum, and that only makes him angrier because why the _hell_ hasn't the serum done the same for Peter? He doesn't deserve this, not for wanting to help people.

"Do you feel better now?" a voice asks and he lifts his head enough to look over the curve of his bicep at Natasha standing a few yards away, her arms crossed delicately. Her expression is somber and sympathetic.

Steve forces himself to look away, rather than giving her the sneer trying to take over his mouth and grunts, "No."

Natasha sidles a little closer. "You're angry," she observes.

"You're damn right I'm angry," he snaps back. His shoulders tense as he bites back more.

"Peter did something foolish, it's only natural to be angry."

"I'm not— I'm not angry at _Peter_ ," he says, appalled by the idea. "He's just a _kid_. He wants to make a difference."

"Tony?"

Steve snorts. "Sure, because Tony can control what our headstrong teenager does."

"Then who?" Natasha asks.

"I don't know!" Steve snaps. "Everyone! Nobody! Myself—God— _I don't know_. He's just a kid, he doesn't deserve this for making one stupid decision. I don't understand why this is happening. Haven't we been through enough?"

"Then what are you going to do about it?"

Something in her tone looses his barely restrained fury, and it rushes over him like a tsunami. When the wash of red draws back, he's crossed the room, fist flying toward her face.

But Natasha dodges the blow easily, hands grabbing hold of his wrist and she uses his momentum to hurl him over her shoulder. He lands on his back hard enough to take his breath away momentarily and a second later she's pinned him, one hand planted just above his heart, and one knee pressed pointedly into his groin.

She leans down, green eyes sharp. " _What_ are you going to do about it?" she demands, enunciating very carefully.

Steve slams his head back onto the mat out of sheer frustration and yells, "I don't _know._ There's nothing I _can_ do. _"_ He starts to try and roll her off and Natasha bears down, forcing him back. "I can't do anything, Natasha; what do you _want_ from me? I've got nothing. Peter's dying and there's not a God-damned thing I can do about it."

Natasha opens her mouth to reply, but before she can speak, JARVIS says, "I'm sorry, Sir, but Director Fury is on the line. He says you're needed at Headquarters immediately."

" _What?_ " Steve sits up abruptly, Natasha moving easily off of him to kneel at his hip, a small frown creasing her face.

"He says it's of great importance, Sir. Apparently, the Fjin have moved earlier than expected."

Steve starts to get to his feet and Natasha catches him around the wrist, staring at him intensely. "Steve, this isn't going to help, you know," she says.

He meets her gaze, grim. "Maybe not, but what the hell else have I got?"

~ * ~

Tony spins on his heel, holding one finger up and Steve knows he's about to get an ear-full. It still never fails to amaze him how much attitude Tony can pack in to the simplest gestures. "No. No, absolutely not, it ain't happening. And furthermore, _fuck no,"_ Tony says, his eyes fever-bright, his lip trembling slightly.

Steve sighs. Normally he'd bristle at Tony's entitled, dramatic BS, but he's exhausted. He's _worn out_ and heartsick and Tony's childish tantrums are too much to deal with, even if he understands why Tony's doing it. Steve considers fighting him for a brief moment and decides what little energy he has is better spent. "Fine," he says. "I'll let Fury know. Do whatever you want."

Tony's jaw is already firmed with a snippy retort, but that makes him falter. His jaw goes loose, his indignantly pointed finger sinking. "Um," he says, now uncertain. He rubs the pads of his fingers together and shifts his weight. "...really? That's it?"

Steve shrugs; it's a half-hearted gesture. "I'm not going to make you do anything, Tony."

Tony snorts. "Since when?"

That's fair, but Steve just tells him, "I have to go."

"Wait," Tony says and Steve hears him start forward. "Hang on."

"What, Tony?" Steve asks wearily, pressing his thumb and his index finger into the corners of his eyes. The sound of his footsteps stop and Steve can feel him hesitate before he feels Tony's fingers curling around the inside of his elbow.

"Hey," he says softly. "Steve. I'm sorry."

Steve presses harder, a sharp, hot burning starting at the backs of his eyes. He presses until it hurts and he just wants Tony to shut up, he has somewhere he has to _be._ He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to get out and do. Why can't Tony just _shut up?_

But he doesn't; Tony never does. "I know I've been kind of a jerk the last few days and I shouldn't be taking it out on you, but Steve—"

A breath catches slightly on its way out of Steve's chest despite his best efforts and Tony goes very still behind him.

"...Steve?"

"I'm fine," he replies tersely and pulls his hand away from his eyes. "I have to go," he repeats and ignores the way it feels like he's swallowed broken glass.

"Like hell you are," Tony says and grips his arm harder, tugging insistently. "This is fucking with you as much as it is me."

" _Tony_ ," Steve says and he can't stop how sharp it sounds. "If you don't want to go that's fine, but I need to."

"Then go!" Tony tells him. "You and I both know I can't stop you! If you have to go, then go!"

But Steve doesn't. His chest is rising and falling visibly with every breath and there are people waiting on him, _counting_ on him, but he lets Tony pull him back around this time when he tugs. Tony's hands move up his shoulders to his neck, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Steve's neck and Steve takes one sharp, faltering breath, letting his head drop onto Tony's shoulder. His arms move around Tony, holding on and Tony's hands tighten around the back of his neck in response. The heat of his palms makes something sharp and hard inside Steve melt away. It hits him that this is the first time he's laid so much as a finger on Tony in days, the most he's said to him in as long and the loneliness he's been struggling to shake off suddenly makes sense. He breathes in Tony's familiar scent—metal and grease and something else he's never been able to place—and presses his face into Tony's neck, feels his pulse against the bridge of his nose, the heat of his skin on his cheeks.

Tony makes a little breathless noise in Steve's ear and he realizes he's holding on too tightly. "Sorry," he mutters and eases up a little. Tony lets out an amused sound, turning his head so he can rest his forehead on Steve's shoulder, the roughness of his cheek against Steve's jaw.

"Missed you, too," he murmurs and a lump catches in Steve's throat as Tony's lips press against the sensitive skin at the base of his ear. "Sorry I've been so—"

"No," Steve says. "Not for this. Not when it's because Peter—"

"Yeah, I know," Tony says, "but I could have taken a break. I mean, come on, I haven't so much as ogled your ass in three days. _Three days,_ Steve."

Steve breathes out a laugh and runs his hand down Tony's back, surprised by how much comfort the feel of the familiar muscles against his palm alone provides. "Actually fessing up to working too hard? Now I've seen everything."

"Ha ha," Tony mutters, his breath sinking through Steve's shirt, warm and damp against his skin.

Steve tucks his nose under the line of Tony's jaw and says quietly, "I know you're doing everything you can. But I'm scared, Tony. Terrified. What if you can't—" His voice catches in his throat and he feels Tony swallow hard, his fingers tightening.

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Yeah, I've uh," he clears his throat. "I've been thinking about that a lot. I don't think I could— If—" He breathes out sharply into Steve's shoulder and shakes his head. "Fuck, Steve, I've never been so scared in my life. If he— Fuck. _Fuck."_

Yeah. Steve knows.

He holds on for another minute and then reluctantly starts to draw back. "I have to... I need to go, Tony."

Tony stares down between their bodies, nodding. "Yeah. I know you do." His eyes skate around the edges of the room. "I should go with you—"

Steve shakes his head and sighs, curling his hand around Tony's neck. "No. We don't need you—"

"You always need me," Tony mutters and the corner of Steve's mouth pulls up.

"—and I think it will make both of us feel better if you're here with Peter."

Tony looks up at him. "You're sure?"

Steve nods.

"Okay," Tony says and squeezes his arm. "You stay safe, got it?"

"I'll do my best," Steve agrees and then Tony kisses him, long and lingering. Their hands remain intertwined until the just before elevator doors close.

~ * ~

On the Helicarrier, Steve dresses in the more subdued version of the suit he wears for the world-saving missions like this, which require a less...flashy presence. Natasha and Clint's uniforms remain largely the same, though Clint's had to put up with the addition of sleeves—it's going to be cold in Finland.

In the weather report included in the briefing, they'd learned they were heading in right alongside a snowstorm.

"Captain Rogers, report to the flight deck. Captain Rogers, to the flight deck."

They must be nearing Helsinki.

Steve looks down at the phone in his hand, displaying the last few texts from Tony. He curls his hand around it, covering the screen, and switches the display off. He slides it into a pocket and heads for the flight deck.

Natasha, Clint, and Coulson are already there, waiting, when he arrives.

"Sorry," he says. "I was..."

No explanation is forthcoming and Steve doesn't bother trying to come up with one. What does it matter? He can feel Clint and Natasha's eyes on him and he can imagine what they're thinking.

"Agent Barton, Agent Romanova, why don't you begin preflight while I have a word with the captain?"

Steve hears them board the Quinjet and looks up to meet Coulson's gaze head on.

"Agent Coulson?"

Coulson steps toward him. "Steve," he says, and an ugly surge of resentment seethes up in Steve's chest, the taste of gunmetal at the back of his throat.

"Don't," he snaps.

Coulson's expression hardens. "Steve," he repeats, deliberately. "We need you on this. We've been waiting for this chance for a long, long time—"

"I'm aware," Steve says, trying not to grit his teeth. "Do you have a point, sir?"

"—and I know the timing here is the precise opposite of ideal, but I need to know that you can put that aside and do your job."

Steve thinks about that, because Coulson's right. If he can't focus, he could easily get Clint or Natasha killed and that's the last thing he wants.

"Let me worry about Tony and Peter," Coulson says, gentler.

Steve looks up at him and after a slight hesitation, nods. "You'll tell me if something...if something happens."

Coulson's mouth pulls into a small, sad smile. "No. I won't." He pauses and then adds, "But I will do everything in my power to make sure that they are as they are, or better, when you return."

Steve nods and stands a little straighter. It's almost a relief to submerge himself in the mission to come. "We'll report in at 0700." He turns to leave.

"Captain?"

"Yes?" he asks, turning back. Coulson's hand is outstretched, palm up.

"I'd like to take your phone, please."

Steve blinks at him and feels his gut give a little twist. "Oh. I—"

"I'm only asking to be polite," Coulson goes on.

Steve's mouth pinches, hand moving to cover the pocket where he stowed the device.

"You have to leave it behind, Steve. You'll be distracted and you know it."

Grudgingly, Steve slips the phone out and deposits it into Coulson's hand. "I feel like I've just been reprimanded by a teacher."

A smile plucks at the corner of Coulson's mouth. "You're never too old to learn something. Good luck, Captain."

Steve nods and tries not to feel guilty as he walks away from his husband and son.

~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~

Tony pulls his phone out and stares at it for what feels like the thousandth time. His last text didn't really require a response, but he's been expecting one anyway.

Tony 7:48AM 10.22.39

what's up buttercup?

He fiddles with the screen, scrolling down like maybe a response will appear if he messes around long enough.

When it doesn't, he sets the phone down beside his keyboard and waves a hand over it, lighting up the keys. A screen pops up in front of him, windows expanding across it containing all the information about Peter's vitals, everything they've collected since they started monitoring him, and the notes Natasha and Clint had managed to persuade Scabel into giving up.

Peter is still and silent beyond the windows of the isolation room, now sealed to keep the radiation contained.

He's still alive, but it's a bittersweet relief.

There's no way of knowing how long that will hold, and the uncertainty is almost worse.

Glancing at the time, Tony realizes it's been nearly six hours since Steve left. He checks the phone one more time, sighs, and then pushes it aside to focus on the notes. There's got to be something here that can help.

~ * ~

 

The building is empty.

They've been in Helsinki for all of two hours, getting in and locating the Fjin's front. It turned out to be a tiny office building on the north side of town.

As soon as they'd gone through the door, Steve had known they wouldn't find anyone. But they go through the motions, checking each room, and doing it quick and quiet as they can.

But the search had turned up a whole lot of nothing.

"They've cleared out," Clint says, scowling at the push pins strewn about on the carpet from someone's hurried removal of the things covering the cork board on the wall.

"Pretty recently, looks like," Natasha says, holstering her gun.

" _Dammit!_ "

Steve slams a fist into the wall beside the doorway. "This was our last good lead!"

Natasha levels a hard look at him. "Then we'll find another one. This isn't the first time we've run into a setback."

"I know!" Steve shouts, whirling around. He deflates when he sees his teammates wary expressions. "I know. Sorry. God, sorry."

"It's a non-issue," Clint says. "But it looks like this is going to take longer than we expected. If that's going to be a problem..."

"No," Steve says. "It won't. I can do this." He takes a second to breathe deeply, looking around the room. Okay. He won't be going back to Peter or Tony anytime soon. That's...that's all right, he can deal with that. He just needs to get his head in the game. _Really_ sink himself into the mission this time. Phil had been right to take his phone. Of course. Phil is always, aggravatingly, right. "Okay, split up," he says. "Search everywhere. There's got to be a hint, some kind of clue to where they've gone. You don't pack up this quick and make a clean get away."

~ * ~

 

"He was supposed to be back within twenty-four hours!" Tony yells, while a holographic Phil Coulson stares judgingly at him from the middle of the lab, arms crossed. "It's been almost three days!"

"Yes," he says, drawing out the word. "He _was_ , but then something _happened,_ as is wont to when one is in the field—"

"I don't need sass from you right now, Agent," Tony snaps.

Coulson sighs, arms unwinding. "The lead that turned up was a bust. The Fjin had cleared out by the time they arrived. Fortunately, they were able to find a poorly discarded envelope with a partial address for another base in the country. _Un_ fortunately, that base is in a small northern town called Kuusamo and the blizzard rolling through eastern Europe has made travel difficult, at best. Believe me, Stark, I want him home with you at least as much as you do."

Tony snorts. "Not likely."

"I'm doing the best I can," he says. "We have to find the device before the Fjin can complete it. This is the closest we've come to it's location in months."

"Yeah, I get it, whatever. When you talk to him, will you ask him why he can't send a goddamn text once in awhile? A 'Hey, letting you know I'm not dead yet' would be appreciated."

Coulson winces. "I confiscated his phone."

Tony's head snaps up. "You _what?"_

The look Coulson gives him is mulish. "I confiscated his phone. If he was capable of texting and talking to you with everything that's going on, he'd never be able to fully focus on anything he needs to right now."

"You _cut him off?_ So I can't—"

"It's for his own good. He needs to be able to block out—"

"Block out what?" Tony snarls. " _His dying son?"_

"Yes," Coulson says icily.

Tony slams his hand down on the keyboard, ending the call abruptly. He sits there for several long minutes, hands curled into fists, breathing hard. Coulson had _no fucking right_ to—and without _telling him,_ are they _serious?_

His eyes snap up as Bruce steps through the lab door. "Hey," he says, "are they going to be back soon?"

"No," Tony spits out and Bruce looks up, his eyebrows rising.

"No?"

"The base was—they had cleared out," Tony explains, the sharp, bright fire of his anger dampening as his brain pulls up the information. "They figured out where to, but there's a blizzard or something."

"Oh," Bruce says. "Well, that's not the first time. It's unfortunate now of all times though..."

"Coulson confiscated Steve's fucking phone," Tony says. "Can you believe that? He's a grown man!"

"He's just trying to keep them safe," Bruce reminds him gently.

"Well—yeah," Tony says, and drops his eyes, reaching for the phone on the lab table. He's been checking it every half hour, hoping to hear something from Steve, anything, and the damn thing's been sitting in Coulson's locker the whole goddamn time.

"I'm sure it doesn't stop him from thinking of you," Bruce says, touching his shoulder. Then: "Come on, I've been looking at some of the test studies Scabel did and I've got an idea I want to run by you."

Tony glances at the screen of his phone one last time and then drops it in a drawer. Fine. He's been cut off from Steve before. He can handle this. He and Bruce will fix Peter and it will be a nice homecoming surprise.

~ * ~

 

Clint and Natasha meet Steve for breakfast when they wake up in Kuusamo. Clint squints at him, looking as roughshod as he usually does in the morning. "Did you even sleep?"

"No, I couldn't," Steve replies and a funny expression goes over both their faces. He's been dying to talk about this for hours though, so he plows ahead, spreading out the hunks of charred map and dossiers he's been scrutinizing all night. "I think there's something here, but I just can't put my finger on it. You guys have gotta help me out. I thought about waking you, but I've got a good feeling about this one and I wanted you guys to be ready to go."

Natasha gives Clint a long look and then sits down at the table, Clint joining them a moment later. "Let's see what you've got here," she says.

Clint flags down the lady running the place and orders a coffee.

"Now, see, look here," Steve says, shuffling through the papers to find one of the maps that had actually had a few faint pencil marks still visible in one charred region not too far from where they are now. "I think this in particular is a direct link to wherever they've gone. And then this—" He hunts up one of the scorched printed pages where he's circled a line in red. "—if you treat these two things as related then it's possible this line here is talking about—thank you," he says, flashing a smile at the woman as she brings them three fresh mugs of coffee.

"My pleasure," she says, patting Steve's arm. "My grandad fought with the Allies and he always spoke highly of you."

Steve blinks up at her. "You know who I am?"

She huffs. "Was it supposed to be a secret?"

Steve's face heats up in chagrin and he shoots a dirty look at Clint when he tries to hide a laugh with a cough.

The woman taps the map. "I assume you're here looking for those unsavories in the red? Several of them have been seen going into one of the fjords a couple miles north of town."

"North, again," Clint mutters. "Why is it always north? I'm freezing my dick off."

Steve shoots him a quelling look. "And you can tell us which one?"

She beams at him and pats his cheek. "Of course I can."

~ * ~

 

The third time Tony nods off looking into the microscope, Bruce sighs and says, "All right, that's enough, Tony. You've got to get some sleep."

Tony scrubs at his face. "No, come on, the bed's been empty for days, I hate that." God, does he ever. He'd never expected to hate having the whole bed to himself, but somewhere around their three year anniversary Steve had been gone for nearly a month and Tony had discovered that all the empty space _bothered_ him.

"You don't have to sleep there," Bruce says, "but you do have to sleep. It's been nearly a week since Steve left and catnaps in the chair by Peter's bed aren't nearly enough to sustain you this long. Go."

Tony groans, but gets to his feet when Bruce pulls on his arm and shuffles off toward the door. "You suck."

"I love you, too, Tony."

Tony flips him the bird.

He slumps in one corner of the elevator on the ride up to the penthouse, but once he's in the bed it's as terrible as predicted. He groans and says, "JARVIS."

"Yes, sir."

"Where's Thor. Get me Thor."

"Certainly, sir."

After a long pause in which Tony wishes he could just fucking _sleep_ , he hears, "Tony?"

"Hey, yeah, Thor, buddy, are you busy canoodling?"

"Jane is working in the labs today," Thor informs him. "What do you require?"

"I need a bed buddy," he says and knows he sounds pathetic, but God help him, he doesn't care.

"Ah," Thor says. "I will be there in a moment."

He hangs up and Tony sighs, and kicks off his shoes.

"You might be more comfortable if you were to undress, sir," JARVIS points out.

"Shut up, J,"he mutters. But his jeans are poking him and he finally admits to himself that's not a terrible idea, so he worms his way out of them without getting up. They're flopping onto the floor about the time Thor knocks on the door.

"May I enter?"

"Yeah, come in. Hurry up, I'm beat."

Thor's face is crinkled with a smile when he steps inside, a book in one hand and his phone in the other.

Tony yawns. "Got—enough entertainment there?"

"Aye, I believe so," Thor says and stoops next to the bed to remove his shoes. He spends another minute gathering up pillows to pile against the headboard and Tony's already started to drift.

"S'rry 'f I k'ck you," he mumbles into the pillow. "Nigh'mare central la'ely."

"Sleep, Tony."

It's not the same, but it's better.

Tony sleeps.

~

 

"On my count," Steve says, hefting the rifle in his hands and taking a breath. If all goes well, this could be the turning point. They've been hunting the Fjin and their plasma weapon prototype for nearly a year now, butt it's a small operation and that makes it tough to ferret them out.

"Three."

A group like Hydra, numbering the hundreds, if not thousands, presents it's own challenges, but finding their bases is not usually one of them. It's hard to conceal hundreds of people with a now-infamous symbol pinned on their lapels for very long.

Concealing less than a dozen is considerably easier.

"Two."

But inside this little ice-covered structure they may have finally hit the nail on the head.

"One."

Success is so close Steve' can taste it, like chocolate, thick and sweet on his tongue.

"Mark!"

Steve kicks in the back door.

It splinters the frame, hitting the floor inside with a sharp bang. Three startled yells follow and Steve flings the shield through the gaping doorway. One of the men goes down when it smashes into his sternum, hurling him back into the far wall.

"Surrender now!" Steve barks at the others. The blonde sneers at him.

"No chance in hell, Captain."

"Fine," Steve retorts, "have it your way."

He lunges forward and puts him down with one swing of his fist.

"How about you?" he asks the remaining member. From the other side of the wall he can hear crashing, the thud of bodies hitting wood. The other man can hear it too.

He looks nervous. Steve raises his eyebrows.

Stepping to the side, he scoops up the shield, eyes on the guy the whole way. He breaks out in a sweat when Steve's got it on his arm again.

Then something slams into the door.

It bursts open, a body tumbling through, sprawling across the floor. The dark head is bloodied and the figure's obviously unconscious.

Natasha leans through a moment later, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Sorry to interrupt," she says, and grabs the man by the collar, hauling him back through the doorway and shutting the door behind them.

"Okay, okay, okay!" the guy says. "I get it, I surrender. Please don't give me a concussion—I get migraines."

Steve slings the shield onto his back and pulls out a handful of zip ties from his belt. "You should get that checked out."

~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~

 

 _Please,_ Tony types later as he finishes an email he's blasting to just about everyone in the known world, _please. Send this to anyone you know, anyone you trust. Somebody please help me save my kid._

He hits send and then buries his hands in his hair, breathing through the shudders coursing through him. He can't pretend that he's got a handle on it anymore. Peter's dying and there's nothing he can do but sit here and wait, and hope to god someone knows something, can think of something, anything that will help save his little boy.

He'd do anything, give anything, if it meant Peter would be okay. He'd go back to that godforsaken cave in Afghanistan for the rest of his life if it meant Peter could have his.

Every stupid, awful thing he's ever done in his life was building up to this, to Peter, so he can't be dying. He _can't._

Peter has the chance to do what Tony should have been doing right from the start—helping people, privatizing fucking—fucking _galactic_ peace. He's so goddamn smart and every inch Steve's son, determined to do his part. So he _can't_ be dying. It wouldn't be fair.

The room doesn't have to be dark at night. Peter's in a fucking coma, it's not like it's going to _wake him up_. Besides, it's unusual for someone _not_ to be in the lab—Tony's noticed they tend to slip out as soon as he shows up—but Bruce has been turning the lights off at night anyway, hanging his hat on one last shred of normalcy.

There's a big red line of tape arcing across the floor from about a foot away from the left wall to about the same on the right. There's a Geiger counter sitting another foot outside that line, which is there because not only is Peter's body breaking down, he's also so fucking radioactive now that that's as far as Tony's allowed to go.

His son is dying and Tony can't even enter the room unless he wants to risk winding up sick and dying too.

The Geiger counter is quiet and Tony steps up to the line, pokes at it with his toes. It would be easy. It would be _painful_ , but Tony's been there, done that. He can deal with the physical pain. But this blade in his chest he can't shake, the way it _burns_ when he thinks about not having Peter anymore...

There aren't words.

He scuffs the tape with his toe and then sniffs and sticks his hands in his pockets, and draws back.

~

Tony sniffles and swipes one grease-stained wrist under his nose. His eyes are burning from exhaustion and because he's lost all control of his goddamn tear ducts since Peter's birth. It's insane how a few days of being a little short on shut-eye coupled with Steve's absence and Peter being...can make him all...ugh.

But it's been seven _days_ and they haven't made a single fucking breakthrough with Peter and he's never felt so useless in his entire life. He wants Steve to drag him out of the workshop and lay on top of him. He wants Peter to come down and fall asleep at the lab table to his right. He wants to _fix this,_ goddammit _._

There's a shush of air moving as the door opens behind him and Tony jerks around, blinking rapidly.

Pepper tilts her head, expression soft and achingly sad.

"Hey," he says, ignoring how thick his voice sounds. "What are you doing here? It's three o'clock in the morning."

"You _know_ that?" Pepper says, pained.

Tony huffs, out of his mouth because he's congested, gross. He taps his fingers on the lab table and then glances up at her and admits, "I'm counting hours, Pep. One seventy-two, in case you were curious."

"Oh, Tony," she says and moves forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

"I just—fuck."

Pepper presses a kiss to his temple and Tony buries his face in her shoulder.

"I thought— I thought knowing he was dying was worse, but, god, I was _wrong,_ Pepper. I'm afraid to go to sleep because I'm _sure_ that will be when it happens, when he finally—"

Pepper hushes him, stroking his hair. "You don't know that."

"I don't _not_ know it either. And Steve is gone and I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

He's not expecting her to have an answer, and she doesn't. She just shakes her head and holds on. "He'll be home soon, Tony, he has to be, right?"

"God, I hope so," he breathes.

She stays up with him until dawn, breaking down in tears around four-thirty and dragging him along with her. He still feels stranded, lost and isolated, but with this thin string, the tiniest safety line linking him to Pepper. He clings to it, gripping tight with both hands.

~ * ~

 

Natasha's wearing a demure skirt suit with a pale pink ruffled blouse, her eyes made large and luminous by carefully applied make-up. She steps into the interrogation room, bubble-gum pink lips smiling sweetly and Steve shakes his head in wonder.

It never fails to amaze him that this works. It seems so obvious to him, so clearly contrived and so patently _wrong_ , but he's seen her put on this show for years and in all that time, only a few dozen men have seen through the ruse. It's...well, it's disgusting, is what it is, that these men think because Natasha's a woman that she's weaker and more vulnerable than they are.

He does enjoy watching her prove them wrong.

The charade takes awhile, because Natasha's a master with the patience of a saint. She takes it slow, feeding the Fjin agent subtle hints that make her seem harmless, in need of a man's magnanimous assistance. She strings him along, setting him up right where she needs him and then, with all the lethal grace of a cobra, strikes.

Two minutes later, the agent's gaping at her like a guppy fish, sputtering.

Natasha graces him with one more sugar-sweet smile and leaves.

Steve grins at her as she closes the door behind her. "Always a pleasure to watch you work, Agent Romanova."

She smiles, but it's unusually subdued, considering the magnitude of the information she's just gleaned for them. "Come on," she says. "Let's see this through to the end."

~ * ~

 

"We're not gonna fix this, are we?" Tony asks, at one-hundred and eighty-four hours. He stares down at his hands, numb with the realization.

"Not any time soon," Bruce murmurs, voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry, Tony."

"Not your fault," Tony says, shaking his head.

He doesn't say anything else for a long time.

~ * ~

 

"Congratulations," Fury says, when they're back on the Helicarrier. "Thanks to you, the plasma device prototype has been collected and destroyed—not a minute too soon, it seems. Our people say it was a few tweaks shy of operational. Good work, you three."

"Thank you, sir," Steve replies and hears Clint and Natasha's voices in chorus with his own.

Fury nods and then waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Now get out."

They do as they're told, all walking more easily now that the weight of the world is off their shoulders. "Thank you," Steve says to them as they head for the mess.

Clint elbows Natasha and says, "You'd think he'd've stopped doing that by now."

Natasha's mouth curls in a small smile. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"Ha ha," Steve says dryly. "I'm serious. You were both on point. We had a couple serious set backs and you handled them all with grace."

"And beauty," Clint says, fluttering his eyelashes. "Don't forget beauty."

Steve laughs.

For some reason, that makes Clint's expression grow somber. "Hey," he says, voice suddenly quiet, "are you—"

Natasha digs her fingers into his ribs, making him yelp. "Enough talk. A little birdy told me they've got _blini_ today. Let's go before they're gone."

"Woman's serious about her dessert," Clint mutters and Steve grins.

"Lead on, soldier."

~ * ~

 

"... _ir... sir..._ Sir."

The abrupt sensation of falling sends Tony shooting upright, his heart rate spiking through the roof as he throws out his hands, grabbing onto the lab table to keep from winding up on his face on the floor. "Wh— JARV— Oh, god." His stomach plunges to his toes. "Peter?!"

"No, Sir, Captain Rogers."

For an instant it feels like every cell in his body has frozen. "Steve?" he whispers.

"Is coming _home_ , Sir," JARVIS says, rushed and slightly horrified sounding. "They will be landing in approximately three minutes."

The rush of relief is so powerful Tony's vision grays out briefly. Then he realizes: _Steve's home._

He lurches off the stool and nearly trips into a prototype, catching himself on U's arm. U chirps at him and helps him pull himself back upright. "Thanks, buddy," he breathes, patting the robot's arm and taking off at a run.

He slams into the wall of the elevator as he boards, the doors closing instantly behind him. "Bruce?" he just about yells and a second later, Bruce replies, _"Tony? What's going on?"_

"Give—give me a status update. Peter—is he—"

" _Unchanged_ ," Bruce says, worry leeching into his tone. "Tony—"

God, he hasn't even been down there in—has it been more than a day? Jesus, he's a terrible father. What the hell is wrong with him?

"Thanks," he says and hangs up on Bruce, watching the numbers climb closer, his heart in his throat.

He bolts from the elevator the second it arrives, sprinting out to the landing pad where the Quinjet is touching down. " _Steve?"_ he shouts, and he sounds like a fucking lunatic, there's no way Steve can hear him over the sound of the turbines from inside the jet. He smacks into the glass separating him from the pad with a _thoonk_ and spends several interminable seconds battling to get the stupid goddamn thing open.

The ramp touches the pad as he staggers out into the open air, wind whipping his hair around. "Steve!"

He, Natasha, and Clint all look up to see him, Steve's face going slack with surprise.

" _Steve!"_ he yells again and hurls himself at him.

Steve catches him, of course, of course he does, arms closing around Tony's waist, pressing into his back and it's the sweetest thing he's ever felt. "Tony?"

"Oh, thank fuck, you're home," Tony says and squeezes him tighter.

~

 

Steve can feel his mouth hanging open and he should do something about that ( _you'll catch flies that way,_ he hears his mother say), but he can't because Tony's clinging to him and babbling and he _forgot._

He _forgot_ Tony. Forgot their _son._

Tony's breathing is picking up, he suddenly realizes and he puts a hand over the back of Tony's head and says, "Tony. _Tony,_ breathe."

He does, sucking in a gulp of air like he'd forgotten how, his fingers clenched tight in Steve's clothes. "Steve, Steve, god, Steve," he's saying, over and over. It makes Steve feel awful; he's obviously been through hell this whole time while he was off—off forgetting them completely, forgetting Peter was—

His grip grows tight on Tony. "Peter?" he asks. "Tony!" he barks, "Is Peter—"

"Alive, alive," Tony bleats. "I couldn't fix him, some fucking genius I am, but he's still alive, thank God, I guess, for that."

Steve pulls him close again, a lump crystalizing in his throat. "I'm sorry, Tony, I forgot. They told me I needed to focus and I _forgot,_ oh my god."

Tony lets out a hysterical little laugh. "You did? You lucky son of a bitch. Doesn't matter what I do, it's all I can think about."

Steve feels sick. "How could I do that—to you—to _Peter_."

Tony kisses him, awkwardly at the corner of one eye. "You compartmentalize like an ace. God, Steve." He kisses Steve again, forehead this time, and then below one eye, the other cheek bone, the corner of his mouth. "I missed you."

He can't say the same, so he buries his face in Tony's shoulder and breathes apologies into his skin, trying desperately to make up for lost time.

~

 

Steve sits at Peter's bedside night and day, hardly moves at all. If he shifts it's to go from staring at Peter's lax features, fingers gingerly stroking his arm, to hunching over his clasped hands praying, sometimes silently, sometimes a desperate, fervent whisper.

He's doing that now, lips barely moving, words impossible to make out. Tony doesn't know what to do. He's exhausted every other option. Maybe...

"Can I— I want to—" Tony's grief-roughened voice fails him and he gestures at Steve's hands, folded together so tightly the tendons on the backs of his hands stand out in sharp relief.

Steve looks at him, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed, and nods, unwinds his hands to beckon Tony forward.

Swallowing hard, he edges a chair closer, angled to face Steve and sits in it, gratefully taking Steve's hands when he reaches out. They lock together and Tony bows forward, the way he's seen Steve do. Steve presses their foreheads together.

"How do I...?" Tony whispers.

"Just ask."

Tony closes his eyes and prays.

~

 

It's just after 2100, the lights in the room down low; there are a couple of desk lamps on in the lab on the other side of the glass, plus a couple of monitors, and some colored blinky lights on the machinery around Peter's bed. Clint's about halfway through his watch, not that they've set up an official _watch_ , it just happens that every four hours or so, someone else comes in to see how Peter's doing and there's only two chairs, one of which is occupied by Steve 99.9% of the time. He's been especially hard to move since they got back from the mission, guilt pouring off him in a deluge.

Now's actually part of that .1% where Steve's not trying to become one with the chair. Instead, Tony's the one holding it down. He's sitting with the chair turned to face the bed, flush up against the side, his legs tangled in the mess of supports and equipment underneath it and his elbows propped on the mattress next to Peter's chest.

Peter himself is curled up on his side and Tony's got his fingers threaded through Peter's, their palms resting together. Tony's other hand is buried in his own hair, exhausted, shadowed eyes focused on Peter's face.

Clint hasn't seen him sit this still in—well, ever, probably, and it's taking a lot of effort to keep his eyes on the brightly colored Angry Birds app on his phone. Tony's not...Tony gets weird when people notice him being pretty much anything but snarky and in control, and he's dealing with a lot of shit with Peter being sick like he is, so Clint's trying to be considerate. As much as he knows how. Hence, Angry Birds and way more focus than a couple of obnoxious green pigs really merit. It helps that the physics in the game are a joke, which pisses Clint off because that's the kind of stuff he uses to do his job and not being able to aim a bunch of goddamn animated birds is embarrassing.

It seems to be working though, 'cause Tony's focus is on Peter instead of his game face.

That means Clint can see the raw fear, the floundering helplessness, and the way his giant brain is working overtime trying to figure out how to solve this. Clint's not sure there is anything he can do and that thought makes his stomach do a slow, sick roll.

His eyes flick to Peter and then back to the pigs—laughing at him now, the little green bastards—and he swears at them because out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony closing his eyes and drawing Peter's knuckles up to his mouth, whispering something Clint really doesn't want to hear because his tortured expression says too much as it is.

~ * ~

 

Steve genuinely has no idea how long he's been sitting in Peter's room gazing blankly at his face when Thor sits down, his normally jovial face somber.

Steve can't bring himself to say anything, so he merely nods. Thor nods back and his blue eyes immediately take on a sheen, pinkening around the edges so that the color becomes electric, unreal. Steve straightens and the part of him that is Captain America stirs. "Thor?" he questions, his voice hoarse from strain and disuse.

A single tear glides down Thor's cheek and vanishes into the blond hairs of his mustache. Steve's heart throbs too hard, afraid.

"What—" he says and watches as another streaks from the other eye and slips into the lines carved by Thor's smiles.

Thor doesn't respond at first, looking to Peter and bending forward over his clasped hands in a sort of bow. When he leans back, he sniffles and returns the intensity of his gaze to Steve. He says quietly, "I come to weep openly, so that you may feel no shame in it."

And it feels like Steve's heart catches in his throat, tearing with finely honed blades. He looks away, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and croaks, "I can't."

"It—is unwise to deny such powerful emotions," Thor says, his voice hitching slightly and it rips a little more of Steve's self control away. "Your child is gravely ill, no one would fault you for a moment of unbounded grief."

Steve's throat constricts so tightly it feels like the skin has broken and the backs of his eyes burn, filling with heat. " _No_ ,"he says and sounds broken even to his own ears, "I _can't_."

Steve can't cry, he can't, because if he looses even one tear then it will be like he's given up on Peter and he can't. He hasn't and he won't. Peter is going to be _fine_ and Steve doesn't care if it's irrational, _he will not cry_.

So he screws up his face and swallows hard and forces back the bladed lump of his heart, feels it settle into his chest again, sharp and aching with hope.

And maybe Thor doesn't understand, but that's okay. Thor can cry for him, for the part of him that's shriveled and dying. Steve sniffs, blinks stinging, tired eyes and watches Peter's face as Thor sits quietly beside him a steady stream of tears trickling down his cheeks.

Thor finally wipes his face and stands, his shoulders weighed down by some invisible burden.

~ Chapter Twenty-Three ~

Pepper looks between the two of them. "Fury sent me to speak with you."

Tony stares at her, sullen. "Because he knows we'd have already kicked anyone else out."

She nods in acknowledgment. "That doesn't make what I'm here to say any less important."

"I don't want to hear it," Steve says, jaw tense.

"Be that as it may," Pepper says, "you need to. Peter is not showing any signs of improving—"

"He stopped being radioactive!" Tony points out.

Pepper gives him a look. "And that was nearly a week ago. You two can't keep doing this forever. You can't continue to hold a twenty-four hour bedside vigil. You haven't bathed in four days, and while, Tony, that's not completely unheard of from you, Steve? Those are the same pants you've been wearing since _Tuesday."_

Steve glares at her, hands locked in front of his now-bearded face. "I think they call this grief."

"Except _you're not grieving_ ," Pepper says. "You're in _limbo._ Believe me, I don't want this anymore than you do—"

"You don't know shit," Tony snarls and Pepper's quiet for a few seconds, her eyes taking on a bright sheen.

"No," she concedes at last, "I don't, not really. But I know you have to accept that this is your new normal. You can't stay here all day, every day. He may never wake up." Tony opens his mouth, lips pulled back in a nasty expression and she hurries to add, "I'm not going to make you do anything. I just think you should know, there are people here who love you and while I know Peter is a huge part of your lives, he's not the only part. So just. Think about that. Think about what he would want you to do."

She nods, almost to herself, and then leaves them, sitting together alone at Peter's bedside.

"It feels like giving up," Steve whispers after a long time. Tony curls into his side. "But we wouldn't," Steve goes on. "We couldn't. Not ever. Even if..."

"Never," Tony says viciously.

Steve swallows and traces the line of Peter's profile with his eyes for the millionth time. He hates to imagine the disappointment in Peter's eyes if he could see them. If he knew how many calls they'd turned down.

Maybe Pepper's right.

They hold hands.

Steve kisses Peter's forehead, brushing back his hair, and Tony follows suit, pressing his forehead to Peter's for a moment in a way that makes Steve's eyes sting. They tell him they love him, and vow that they're not giving up. Tony cries, tears tracking down his cheeks, silent and relentless.

And then they retreat.

Steve feels like a part of him is breaking off, being left behind, and he treasures the sharp edges of it, holds on and feels them dig in, because that means he's left a part of himself with Peter.

They shower and shave and Steve runs the pad of his thumb over the clean, sharp line of Tony's goatee, Tony's fingers caressing his own smooth jaw. Peter's backpack is sitting next to the kitchen table and Tony breaks down again. Steve wraps himself around him and they sit on the floor there for nearly an hour, rocking together.

"I'm...gonna go to the workshop," Tony says eventually. It sounds like the last thing he wants to do.

Steve thinks and says, finally, "I should go talk to Fury."

"Yeah," Tony says.

It's a while longer before either of them gets up.

~

Tony's lying on his back under a prototype with a wrench in hand and a screwdriver between his teeth one afternoon when JARVIS says, voice urgent, "Sir, there has been a change in Peter's brain activity."

For a second, Tony's heart stops completely.

"I thought at first it was just a minor anomaly," JARVIS goes on, "but it has continued to steadily increase all morning. Peter is approaching activity levels which indicate consciousness."

His heart slingshots into his throat and Tony claws his way out from under the prototype, dropping the screwdriver. "Where's Steve?" he demands.

"He is at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters training new recruits—"

"Get him on the phone, now!" He throws the wrench into a tool box and races into the bathroom to scrub up. No way in hell he's going up there filthy as he is and risking compromising Peter.

"I believe he has turned his phone off—"

"Then turn it on!" Tony shouts, scrubbing furiously at his arms.

"Yes, sir."

He's busy rinsing off the lather when Steve's voice comes out of the speakers, voice sharp with worry, "Tony, what is it? Are you all right?"

"Peter's brain activity's changed, JARVIS thinks he's waking up. It might not mean anything, but then again..."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Steve says and hangs up.

Tony scrubs until his skin is pink and raw, heart pounding against the arc reactor like it's trying to beat it out. He shucks his dirty clothes and yanks on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt before stuffing his feet into socks and racing for the elevator, shoes in hand.

He crams them on as the elevator rockets up to the MedBay. Something somewhere between terror and anticipation is thrumming under his skin and he can't hold his hands still to save his life.

Bruce is exiting the other elevator when he gets off, looking disheveled and breathless. "Go, go!" Tony says and Bruce jogs ahead of him, his hastily pulled on lab coat flapping.

Inside the lab, Betty's waiting for them, her eyes bright with excitement. "He's definitely coming to," she says.

"You're sure?" Bruce says before Tony can. She nods.

"Positive."

" _Tony_ ," Bruce says, grabbing hold of his hand and Tony nods a little dumbly.

"Yeah. Yeah, can I...?" He gestures at the room.

"Yes, go on, he's still clean."

Tony swallows down a sudden swarm of butterflies and goes in, eyes fixed on Peter's face. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he thinks he sees him shift minutely. He crosses over to the bed and takes his hand, squeezing it. "Hey, Bambi, it's me. Come on back to us, okay, buddy? We miss you."

Over the last couple weeks, he's gotten way more comfortable talking to this still and silent iteration of his kid than he thinks is fair, or even healthy. God, he'd give anything to hear Peter back-talking him again.

"Tony?" he hears, yelled through the lab and Tony turns, sees him burst through the door, his hair disheveled and a thin sheen of sweat at his temples and on his neck. His wrists are even still taped.

Tony reaches out to grab his outstretched hand and tilts his face up to accept the brief kiss Steve offers, his eyes raking over Peter. "Is he—"

"Not awake yet," Tony says, squeezing his hand, "but getting there."

Steve looks at him, blue eyes huge and desperate for reassurance. "Really?"

"Betty promised," Tony tells him and leans into Steve's shoulder as his throat works, his chin trembling.

He closes his eyes and whispers, "Please, God, please, give him back."

The two of them sit down, one on either side of the bed, holding Peter's hands, and they wait. The other Avengers stop by, offering well-wishes and prayers and cups of coffee, in Darcy's case. Night is settling outside the Tower, Tony fiddling with the display by Peter's bed while Steve stares at his fingers, intertwined with Peter's, when it happens.

Through the window of the transparent display, Tony sees Peter's eyelashes flutter and he barely registers it because they've been doing it all day in bursts. Except this time, they flutter and inch open. Tony's breath catches. "Steve," he whispers. "Steve!"

Steve's head snaps up and his gaze darts around, bewildered for a second before he looks to Peter's face. He leans forward, a raw, desperate kind of hope overtaking his expression. "Oh, god."

"Peter?" Tony says cautiously, watching the sliver of brown between his eyelashes slide one way and then the other. Just the sight of it is enough to form a lump in his throat.

Peter doesn't speak, doesn't even seem to realize they're there. It sours his joy somewhat.

Steve waves a hand to get Bruce's attention—he's been in the lab down here all day, attention divided between his work and the displays monitoring Peter's condition—his expression tense.

Bruce hurries in and shuffles Tony out of the way, leaning over Peter to shine a penlight in each of his eyes. Peter grimaces slightly and turns away from it. "Peter? Can you hear me?" Bruce asks. "If you can hear me, squeeze your father's hand."

Both he and Steve shake their heads a moment later.

Tony's stomach sinks as Peter's eyelashes flutter again and then settle closed again. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Is it his brain? Why didn't he respond?"

"He may not have the ability to yet, Tony. Coma patients aren't like the ones in fairy tales. It takes time for the brain to reboot."

"So he still might?" Steve asks.

"Yes," Bruce replies. "It will take time to find out how this ordeal has affected him. It may change everything, or nothing. We just have to wait and see."

"Wait and see," Tony mumbles. "Sure. Been there, done that, got the app. What's a little more?"

~

 

Peter hears voices asking his name. He's not sure why, and everything's kind of blurry and hazy. It's bright and it smells like the MedBay. He can't make sense of any of it.

He aches.

A voice asks for his name again, and it takes him a minute to work up the energy to move his mouth. It shouldn't be exhausting to say his name, but it is. Then they ask him to count backward from ten. He loses track somewhere around six.

When he wakes up again, he can see better. He remembers why he's in the MedBay, and his stomach flips sluggishly.

Everything still aches, but less he thinks, than it did before. He hears voices. He wonders if he's still dying. "Dads?" he tries.

Peter can barely hear his own voice, it's so quiet.

But someone says, "Peter?"

He's not awake long enough to answer.

 

~

 

According to Bruce, Peter's been showing signs of a full recovery, but Steve's having trouble believing it when all Peter's done is open his eyes a few times and stare hazily up at the ceiling. Bruce says he spoke once, but he wants to see for himself.

Then one morning they're visiting and he breathes, voice harsh and crackling, "Dads?"

Steve hears Tony nearly choke on nothing at all and they both lean forward at once. Steve reaches out, hand cupping Peter's face and he blinks, a little dazed. Then his eyes focus.

"Dad?" he repeats and Tony breathes, "Yeah, buddy, we're here, hey. Hey."

There are tears in the corners of Tony's eyes and Peter's forehead wrinkles, the hand Steve is holding curling just a little bit tighter. "Wh'appened?" he mumbles and everything hits Steve all at once, a building coming down around his ears.

A sob wrenches free of his chest and he hears Peter say, bewildered, "Dad?"

"Steve?" Tony says, alarm creeping into his voice, but Steve can't stop. He puts his head down to hide his face and cries. Every tear he held back before out of sheer willpower overtakes him now, rushing out in a flood, all the terror and hopelessness and absolute despair rolling through him all over again, blanketed by overwhelming, sweet relief.

He shudders with it, going easily when Tony's hands pry him up from the bed, his arms pulling him in close. "Shh, shh, hey," Tony breathes. "You don't have to— Jesus, Steve."

Then for awhile there's nothing but the feeling of his chest heaving in and out, tears tracking down his cheeks until they feel like they're on fire, hot and stinging and raw. When it finally passes, he can't breathe through his nose at all.

Peter's going to be okay.

~

 

Peter quickly realizes something is strange.

The first time he's allowed to try solid foods, the spoon sticks to his hand. He spends a full minute staring at it, stuck to his index and middle fingers. It looks almost as if his fingers have magnitized. He shakes his hand, but the spoon doesn't budge.

"Uhh...Uncle Bruce?" he says and gets the attention of his dads and his uncle. He turns his hand to face them. "This is kinda weird, right?" He shakes.

Uncle Bruce frowns. Within fifteen minutes they've got a microscope and they're peering at his hand, fussing with the spoon and trying to remove it It's been stuck for almost a half an hour when Peter flexes his hand just so and the thing drops to the bed.

"Fascinating," Bruce murmurs and takes his hand, touching his own palm to it. This time, Peter can feel the slight crawl across his skin as it adheres.

"Whoa. I can feel that." He moves his hand and Bruce stares in surprise as his own moves with it.

"Feel what?" he asks.

"It's like...like the feeling you get when air brushes over your skin." He concentrates, flexes the muscles, and feels the same slight creeping sensation. He takes his hand away easily. He looks up at Bruce and then at his dads, grinning. "It's like super-gripping action. I can stick to metal and skin, I wonder what else?"

Tony hauls in boxes of stuff, handing things to him one by one. Peter can stick to all of it.

"It's just like the mechanism that spiders use to stick to surfaces," Bruce explains later. "There are microscopic hairs on your skin that cling to virtually any material."

His dads exchange a heavy look, but Peter can barely contain his excitement. It _worked._ The serum Scabel created _worked_. He smothers a delighted laugh.

The sticking ability makes his dads curious, and his dad and Bruce start running tests with Aunt Betty, gauging his strength (increased to nearly three times his dad's ability), testing his vision (it turns out he doesn't need glasses anymore _yes)_ , and Bruce thinks maybe even some form of super healing.

"It seems like this has, in fact, improved him," Bruce informs them. "The only thing is, I'm not sure it would have worked on anyone else. Peter's always been a little bit more 'super' than your typical child, and what his body went through over the last month? It would have killed anyone else. So maybe Scabel was on to something here, but without the springboard of the original serum in Peter's blood to build off of, it's just another vial of poison."

"Speaking of which," Tony says, turning on his heel to face the bed. "Peter, I love you. I am thrilled beyond reason that you aren't dead, or paralyzed, or brain dead, or one of a million other horrifying things I've been imagining."

Peter's stomach slides to his toes. "But," he says in a small voice.

"But," Tony confirms, tilting his head forward. "You are grounded. For a _month._ " His eyes grow a little brighter, his mouth trembling with the ferocity of his expression. "No TV, no music, no lab, no Gwen, no sparring, no trips to Jersey with Johnny Storm, are you getting the picture?"

Peter sinks down in the bed, wishes it would swallow him whole. "No fun of any kind."

"Exactly," Tony bites out. "And do you get _why?_ "

Peter swallows and glances at Steve who's watching him with his arms crossed, grim and unsympathetic.

Tony's eyes flash. Not literally, but it's a close thing. " _Because_ ," he goes on, "You trusted a guy you learned about via _the internet—_ "

"I found him with JARVIS' help," Peter protests on reflex and that's such a terrible idea, mouth, _why._

"Who you are _also_ not allowed to speak to!" Tony snaps. "In fact, _you're_ fucking grounded, JARVIS, we _talked_ about this!"

"I'm very sorry, Sir," JARVIS murmurs softly.

"Not yet you aren't," Tony growls. Then he comes back to Peter. "I thought you were a _responsible_ kid. A model fucking teenager, but then you go and do what basically amounts to _buying drugs_. You _lied_ to us, you went behind our _backs_ , you endangered not only yourself, but everyone in the goddamn tower. If you'd become radioactive but not sick?? Your father and I thought we'd _lost_ you, after—after everything we went through just to _have you—_ "

"Tony," Steve says and touches his arm.

Peter flounders, guilty and frustrated. "I just wanted to—"

"You just wanted to feed your own ego!" Tony snarls. "You didn't give two seconds thought to what might happen—what it would _do_ to us if something happened to you!"

Peter's arguments wither and die in his throat. He...hadn't. His dads have been clingy and teary since he woke up and they tell him he almost died and, wow, he'd bought into his own propaganda of being the _good_ kid and totally blown it. He stares down at his hands and whispers, "I'm sorry."

Tony sighs, long and sad.

"Thank you," Steve says quietly. He moves closer, deliberately uncrossing his arms. "Peter...we want you to have everything that you want. We really do. But there's so much you don't know yet, and I know you feel invincible, but...it scares us that you thought this was what you had to do."

"I get that you want this. I do," Tony says. "It hurts that you didn't come to me though."

"You guys never listened when I brought it up!" Peter bursts and winces, expecting retribution.

Instead, Tony takes a shaky breath. "Okay, that's fair."

Peter blinks at him. "It is?"

Steve grimaces. It looks like it pains him to say it, but he agrees. "We brushed it aside when we shouldn't have. We should have taken you more seriously—tried to give you other options. You did this because you felt you had no other choice, am I right?"

He picks at the blanket and shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess."

"So we've all got things to work on," Tony says.

"But I'm still grounded?" Peter asks even though he knows the answer.

"Absolutely," Steve says. "You broke a whole slew of rules. You break the rules, you do the time."

Peter sighs. "Yeah. I guess that's to be expected."

"You want to grow up, you have to deal with the consequences like a grown up." Steve shrugs. He fiddles with the blanket by Peter's leg. "We love you."

Peter rolls his eyes, but fondly. "Yeah, Dad, I love you, too."

"Now cough up the phone," Tony says, waving his hand in a gimme gesture. "I know Darcy smuggled it in this morning."

With a groan, Peter pulls the phone out from under the blankets. "Can I at least tell Gwen I'm grounded?"

"Yep, first thing Tuesday morning when you go back to school."

Peter moans again, but he holds out the phone, lets his hand drop under it's weight and—something white shoots out of his upturned wrist, hitting Tony in a white starburst on the left side of his face.

He starts, reaching up to touch it.

"What the hell is that?" Steve says in surprise.

"I don't know!" Peter exclaims. "Sorry, Dad! Sorry!"

"Ugh, gross," Tony says, "feels like spiderwebs. Steeeve, get it off!"

The two of them start picking at the fine white strands and Peter can't help it. He cracks up. "It's stuck in your goatee!"

Tony whines and Steve huffs, brow furrowing as he carefully removes the webbing, which clings to his fingers. "Bruce," he calls, "come look at this!"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Tony wails, "it shot out of Peter's wrist!"

"You're sure that's where it came from?" Bruce says with the tiniest twitch of his mouth and both Steve and Tony groan.

"God, please, no, don't put things like that in my head what is _wrong_ with you, Bruce?"

"It looks like some kind of spider silk," Bruce says interestedly, reaching out to touch the chunks hanging from Steve's fingers. "Fascinating. Where did you say it came from?"

"From my wrist," Peter says. "I held out my hand and dropped my hand back—"

He repeats the motion and Bruce exclaims, "Whoa!" as more of the white substance shoots out of his wrist. He ducks out of the way, just barely, and the substance hits the window. It actually looks like a spiderweb spread out across the glass like that.

"Oops."

"So that's what those wounds were becoming," Bruce mutters and crosses to examine Peter's wrists, carefully pressing his hand back to get the same reaction. Pretty soon the window's nearly covered.

Peter looks at his dads and they're both staring at the webbing in wonder. Tony's talking about testing the strength and range of it, gesticulating enthusiastically, while Steve hums thoughtfully and occasionally slips in a comment about tactical usage such as blinding enemies, maybe even pinning them, he adds, plucking at the strands stuck to his fingers.

And maybe he went about it the wrong way, but Peter's officially a superhero now and he can already feel the way his dads are treating him differently—more seriously, and it feels amazing.

Look out, New York, here comes the Spider-Man.


End file.
